


Draco Malfoy’s Guide to Seducing Your Enemy

by rottnrotty



Series: Draco Malfoy’s Guide to Seducing Your Enemy [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Blackmail, Character Study, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, HP: EWE, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, POV First Person, Pansexual Character, Rare Pairings, Slow Burn, Slytherin Pride, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-19 19:06:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14243814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rottnrotty/pseuds/rottnrotty
Summary: Excerpt:“I don’t care how pretty you are or how pure your blood is. There are people out there that even the great Draco Malfoy can’t seduce.”Stupid bint, of course she’s right. That doesn’t mean she needs to know.“My dear Pansy,” I say, my voice dripping with faked tolerance, “you underestimate my charms.”“Actually, I’m quite familiar with your...charms,” she says lewdly. I have to repress a shudder.It is true, that before the war, I allowed myself to be ensnared by Pansy Parkinson. To be fair, she was very devoted to me at the time. Plus, she had amazing tits. Still does.I’ve found that I’ve lost my appetite for spoiled, whiny brats warming my bed.





	Draco Malfoy’s Guide to Seducing Your Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> Completely Unbetaed. Sorry! I just enjoy writing stories.

“I don’t care how pretty you are or how pure your blood is. There are people out there that even the great Draco Malfoy can’t seduce.”

Stupid bint, of course she’s right. That doesn’t mean she needs to know.

“My dear Pansy,” I say, my voice dripping with faked tolerance, “you underestimate my charms.”

“Actually, I’m quite familiar with your...charms,” she says lewdly. I have to repress a shudder.

It is true, that before the war, I allowed myself to be ensnared by Pansy Parkinson. To be fair, she was very devoted to me at the time. Plus, she had amazing tits. Still does.

I’ve found that I’ve lost my appetite for spoiled, whiny brats warming my bed. Pansy was most displeased when I ended our...relationship, for lack of a better word. Hence, her mockery and jeers every time the old gang meets up.

Tonight, it’s just me, Pansy, and Greg, which I am unendingly pleased about. Blaise is out of the country. Daphne is attending her baby sister Astoria’s engagement party. Marcus Flint begged off sick. Millicent Bulstrode only joins the group when she is absolutely, positively sure that Pansy won’t show up. Theodore Nott keeps to himself, and joins us twice a year, at most. Just Greg is present to witness Pansy’s diatribe, and he won’t understand most of it, anyway.

I find it oddly fascinating that Pansy has insinuated that I am a slut. Like I go around seducing virgins and lonely housewives in my spare time.

It was Pansy that cheated on me, over and over again, while we were together at school. The fact that I didn’t really care should have been a large clue regarding my true feelings.

And now, the shapely Miss Parkinson is fucking her way back into polite society. It’s funny how many ‘war heroes’ forget about Pansy’s attempt to give up Potter to the Dark Lord, when faced with her ample cleavage. The last I heard, she was shacked up with Neville Longbottom, of all people. Apparently his cock is “monstrous” and “extremely rideable”. I’ll take her word for it.

I, on the other hand, am trying to improve the Malfoy name in a much more professional fashion. Funding restorations, hosting charity events, giving large donations to worthy causes, that sort of thing.

Yes, all right, I am attempting to buy my way into the good graces of the public. It worked for Father in the past. At least I’m not lying on my back and spreading my legs to improve my image.

Pansy is leaning over the table towards me, a feral grin on her lips. I know that look. She’s up to something. “What do you think, Greg? Is Draco handsome enough to get anyone he wants?” Although her question is aimed at Goyle, her eyes never leave my face.

“Uh, yah, I guess,” Greg replies loyally. He never did like Pansy. And even though Greg is a little afraid of her, he is willing to call me attractive, just to spite her. He’s a true friend.

His answer makes Pansy smile wider, so that all her teeth show. For the second time in less than ten minutes, I fight back a shudder. Instead, I casually lean back in my chair, and take a long drink. Absinthe, neat. I usually prefer it prepared in the classic French method, but tonight I don’t have the patience or the concentration required. Greg follows suit and sips his ale, looking as miserable as I feel. We should have cancelled on Pansy and gone out together, just the two of us. Unfortunately, that always feels lonely, like there is something missing. An echo of Vincent, haunting us with his absence.

“Come on, Draco,” she says with false friendliness, patting my hand. “You have a lot of enemies. Or at least, people who hate you. Are you saying you can seduce any of them?”

“No,” I grind out. It’s obvious that she is getting on my nerves, and she gives me a pleased smirk. Thankfully she pulls her hand away from mine before I have to grab it back. I resist the urge to wipe it on my napkin. “You were the one who started this ridiculous conversation.”

“Ah, yes,” she replies, bobbing her head and sticking her tongue in her cheek. She likes to do that around men. Thinks it reminds us of getting our pricks sucked, and makes us easier to manipulate. As if I’d let her vile mouth anywhere near me at this point. “That is true. But you then implied that I was mistaken, and that your...charms...were considerable enough to get the job done. So which is it, Draco? Are you as irresistible as you like to think, or are you a played out has-been?”

I don’t really think I’m either, to be honest. People do say I’m attractive. It’s the white blond hair and the pale, fragile skin more than anything. Gives me an air of vulnerability. I’m tall, well dressed, fairly fit, with impeccable manners and a healthy amount of Galleons in the vault. So yeah, I do fairly well for myself as far as hooking up is concerned.

“Don’t sell yourself short, love,” she simpers. Poor Greg has just chugged the rest of his ale, and is motioning furiously at the barkeep for another round. I tip the remainder of my drink down my throat as well, grasping the new, condensation-covered glass with a firm grip as soon as it appears on the table. Best keep my hands occupied, if I want to avoid choking Pansy to death.

“Really, Draco. Who hates you? Let’s makes a list, shall we?”

I do it to humour her, and because I know that there are a fair few people who would rather have sex with a blast-ended skrewt than touch the son of Lucius Malfoy with a ten inch wand.

“Potter, obviously,” I say, my glance falling on a table across the room. The Great Gryffindor is there, with a contingent of his closest friends and some fellow Aurors. “Granger. The Weaselette. Hagrid. Cho Chang. Lovegood. Finnigan.” I’m just naming all the people seated at the table, but it’s probably true.

Pansy is shaking her head, a thoughtful look on her face. “No, I don’t think Harry hates you. He did testify at your trial. And I know Seamus has a bit of a crush on you.” She would know, she sucked Finnigan’s cock for a few months about a year ago. Probably sucked out his soul, along with a few juicy secrets to use as blackmail material. “Come on, who else? How hard can this be?”

I know she’s trying to make me feel bad, and rub in my face how much more popular she is. I refuse to let her see me upset. “Oh, loads more, I suspect,” I say in an airy voice. “McGonagall, for sure, and the rest of the Hogwarts Professors, most likely. Mr. Crabbe. Countless other supporters of the Dark Lord who think I got off easy. Hmmm, countless supporters of Potter, who think I got off easy. The list is endless.”

“McGonagall, that’s interesting. Think you could seduce old Professor plaid knickers, Draco?”

Pansy is such a repugnant twat sometimes. “Well, I-“

She cuts me off with a hearty snicker. “No wait! I’ve found the perfect candidate.”

Her eyes are trained on the pub door, so I swing myself around to see what the fuss is about. Potter’s Weasel is just entering the pub. He looks...different. Confident? His clothes are certainly better. He’s dressed in a charcoal grey Ministry cloak, the kind Aurors frequently wear in the winter months. But where Potter looks a little sloppy and rumpled, Weasley looks well put together. The silver clasp fastenings shine like they have just been polished. It is almost Snape-like, the way the cloak billows out behind him.

I expect him to walk straight to Potter and drop ungracefully into a seat, but as he passes our table, he drops a small nod. Pansy smiles and flutters her eyelashes. I forgot that she spent some time with the remaining Weasley twin just a few months ago.

Weasley then approaches the bar, and requests some type of drink in a dark amber bottle. He takes a healthy swig, downing almost half the drink, before he pastes a smile on his face and makes his way to Potter’s table. Interesting. It seems like there might be trouble in Gryffindor paradise.

“Ron Weasley,” Pansy crows triumphantly. I pry my eyes off of Potter’s table to refocus on Pansy. “You were an utter shit to him, remember Draco? Always making fun of his family, calling him poor, and so forth. Oh, this is just too good. And those ‘Weasley is our King’ badges. And the song! Oh, sweet Salazar, the song.” Pansy has tears rolling down her cheeks. I tent my fingers on the table and wait for her to get to the point.

Finally, after much head shaking and chuckling, she does. “I bet you, Draco Malfoy, that you can’t seduce Ron Weasley.” She tilts her head, and drums a finger against her lips. “In fact, I’m so sure it can’t be done, I’ll give you six months in which to accomplish the task.”

It’s impossible. I know it, Pansy knows it. Even Greg, who has just leaned forward and quietly vomited onto the floor between his feet, knows it. But I find I can’t spend one more minute at that table, with Pansy bloody Parkinson. “What’s in it for me?” I ask loftily, while making a show of examining my nails. Which are buffed to perfection, by the way.

“What would you like?” she replies suggestively, leaning forward to best display her assets.

I pretend to contemplate for a moment. It doesn’t actually matter what I want, because I will never win this bet. However, appearances must be kept up. “The Manor,” I say. “You have pull at the Ministry.” If you can call fucking everyone with two legs and a cock ‘pull’. “If I succeed, I want you to help me regain access to my childhood home.” The Manor had been seized by the Ministry right after the war. All of Lucius’s assists had. And as he rots in Azkaban, it seems unlikely they will be restored to me, the Malfoy heir, anytime soon. Thank Merlin for my enormous trust fund.

“Done,” she says with a savage smile. She already thinks she’s won.

Weasley has just risen from his table, and is winding his way back towards the bar. “Please do excuse me, must not let opportunity go to waste.” As I rise, I clasp Greg heartily of the back. “Don’t forget that broken quill portkey in your pocket. It’s leaving in about five minutes, and it will take you right to your bedroom.” It’s not strictly legal, but I have taken to making portkeys for Greg when we are out drinking. He is much too heavy to drag and apparate. Also, he is a total lightweight who always ends up going home early.

“Only five more minutes of Pansy,” he says, in a voice he clearly thinks is a whisper. I hold in a chuckle, while Pansy makes an annoyed sound. “Thanks, Draco.”

“Anything for you,” I say, and I mean it. Greg is a good friend.

That doesn’t stop me from striding away from the table, towards the worn mahogany bar where Weasley rests, lounging on one elbow. It says something, doesn’t it, that I’m so willing to rush towards an enemy in my haste to escape Pansy.

I sidle up to the bar and order another drink. My fifth of the night, and it should be my last. But right now, I could use a little liquid courage. I turn slightly, and let my hand graze just a fraction over Weasley’s forearm. “Weasley,” I say, giving him a deferential nod.

He just looks at me. Not sneering, or gaping, or incredulous, or any other manner of reactions I may have expected. He’s just calmly gazing, with no real expression on his face. After a moment, he looks away, into the crowd, and says, “Malfoy. Haven’t seen you in person in a while.”

“Yes, well,” I reply inanely. He is cool and unruffled, which is totally throwing me for a loop. What happened to the scruffy boy with the red face, who was so easy to rile up and wanted to answer everything with his fists in my face? This version of Weasley is unnaturally composed.

His eyes meet mine again, and now he does grin. “What’s up, Malfoy?” When I don’t answer, his smile deepens. “You must want something. Why else would you be talking to me? Just spit it out.”

I’m wrong-footed yet again. Not only is Weasley maddeningly serene, he is also weirdly perceptive, which I’m sure is a fairly new trait. He seemed pretty oblivious at Hogwarts. I’m startled into honesty, and let the whole story of Pansy and the bet slip through my lips before I can even stop myself.

“Huh,” he says, when I’m all done. He drains the bottle he has in his hand. “Patronizing, overbearing friends. Can’t say I have much experience with that.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm, and he throws a bitter glance at Potter’s table before turning around to face me. “So, ask me.”

He’s lost me. “Uh...pardon?” I ask, trying not to sound like a total wanker. From the way Weasley rolls his eyes, I’m not doing a very good job.

“Ask me. Out. Yah know, on a date? Ask me.”

“Why?” I ask, genuinely wondering. “I mean, why would you go on a date with me?”

“Well, a free, fancy meal would be nice,” he says. “And, Parkinson is right, I do hate you. So, on this date, you can cast a nice muffliato, and I will recall every instance of gitishness you ever directed my way.”

“Sounds like a magical evening,” I mumble. Weasley snorts and punches me on the shoulder. Like we are mates or something.

“Just ask me, you git. Trust me, the asking part is important.” He looks at me expectantly.

I heave a sigh, and say, “Weasley, would you care to accompany me to Chez Abella this coming Saturday? I will secure reservations for seven o’clock. We can meet at the apparition point by Madam Malkin’s, if that is agreeable.”

“Italian?” he asks.

“No, French,” I answer with an honest smile.

“All right, then. That would be most...agreeable.”

I know he’s taking the piss, mocking my wording, but I don’t even care. I’ve just realized what I’ve gotten myself into. An evening with Weasley, listening to him roll out all my misdeeds, every snarky remark and rude gesture. Salazar, it’s going to be a long night. But still, I mustn’t forget my manners. “Thank you. See you then.” I manage to walk away, my back ramrod straight, hopefully projecting extreme dignity. Most likely it just looks like I have a giant wand shoved up my arse.

Pansy looks at me expectantly when I return to the table and grab my cloak. “We are having dinner on Saturday,” I say shortly.

She doesn’t believe me, I can see it on her face. “Hey, Weasley,” she screeches across the bar, like the banshee that she is. Ill-mannered hag. My Mother would be speechless. “You really going on a date with Draco?”

“Yup,” he replies easily, ignoring all the gasps his answer elicits. Granger looks particularly red in the face.

Pansy is shocked. “Why?”

“Because he asked,” Weasley replies, and throws a wink my way, before turning back to the bar. Smart, smart man. He knew Pansy would ask, and he didn’t have to lie.

As I button my cloak, I lean in close to Pansy, and whisper, “I do hope getting the Manor back will prove as easy for you as securing this date was for me,” and I swoop out of the pub.

~~~***~~~

I’m nervous. Salazar’s saggy sack, I am actually nervous about this ‘date’ with Ronald bloody Weasley.

Maybe it’s the headline in the Prophet the day after our exchange in the pub.

**Auror Weasley slinks to new low by dating Death Eater.**

I bet they think they are witty, using ‘slinks’ in place of ‘sinks’. Because all the bad guys are snakey Slytherins, right? Haha, yes, what an amusing joke. Yawn.

Or maybe it’s the reaction I get when I run into Potter in the atrium of the Ministry on Friday. He and his Auror partner, Cho Chang, are preparing to leave by Floo as I arrive for an appointment with the Charitable Advisor of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Potter grasps my robes by the collar, and shoves his wand under my chin, spitting out random threats and rubbish. He basically accuses me of Imperiusing Weasley, as if my wand isn’t being monitored for dark magic by the Ministry. Chang, pulls him off me and throws him into the Floo, but not before I catch a glimpse of Potter’s bewildered face.

It could be that I’m just not ready to hear what Weasley has to say. I know I was a prick at Hogwarts. I know I treated Weasley with less regard than a Flobberworm. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, facing the shortcomings of your upbringing.

I’ve apologized to a multitude of people. Painstakingly hand-written missives on my personalized stationary. Even Potter received one. But I never sent so much as a scrap of spare parchment to Weasley.

Why? Partly because of the old family feud, between the Malfoys and the Weasleys. It started long before I was born. Why should I be the one to mess with centuries of tradition? But, honestly, the main reason is much more embarrassing. I was jealous of Ron Weasley.

I wanted what he had. I had offered Potter my friendship, in first year, and he turned me down, in favour of Weasley. I spent the rest of my Hogwarts life trying to figure out what made a freckly, awkward, uncouth git a better choice of friend than me.

I arrive at Chez Abella fifteen minutes early, to ensure the table I have reserved is adequate, and speak with the Maître D’ regarding food and beverage choices. I am expecting Weasley to be late, but at five minutes to seven, as I get ready to leave the restaurant and head to our meeting place, I spot a shock of fiery red hair being led my way. I have a moment of panic over Weasley’s probable attire. He dressed like a homeless person in school. But I needn’t have worried; Weasley is decked out in an elegant set of dark blue dress robes. I can’t help but notice how well they hi-light the blue of his eyes.

“What, you’re not even going to pull my chair out for me, Malfoy?” Weasley says with a grin. “I’m disappointed in your lack of graciousness. It’s almost like you aren’t taking this date seriously.”

“Good evening, Weasley,” I reply primly. His grin turns into a full, teasing smile, and I roll my eyes good naturedly in return. “Forgive the oversight. I thank you for coming.”

“Merlin, but you are still a snob. Relax, Malfoy. Let’s enjoy a drink before I remind you of what a bugger you are.”

That’s what I get. One drink, in the company of a smiling, pleasant Weasley. After that, during the salad starter, he requests that I cast a muffliato on our table. His face remains polite and engaging. Anyone glancing at the table would assume we are having a marvellous conversation.

They would be wrong. For the next two hours or so, through several more courses, and numerous glasses of wine, Weasley let’s me have it. Fuck, he has a memory like a steel trap. I swear to Salazar, he remembers every slight, every glare, every taunt I ever made. And the big things. Merlin, it’s almost too much to take. He talks about his sister and the Chamber of Secrets. His brother getting attacked by the werewolf that I let into Hogwarts. Granger’s torture at the Manor. And the lasting consequences and implications each of those episodes had.

He talks about himself too, in a totally open and honest way that I don’t feel I deserve. How much he envied me; my family’s wealth, my status as an only child, my self confidence, my innate book smarts, my Quidditch skills. It’s because of that envy that my taunts cut him to the bone, more than anyone else could. His blunt words throw me so off balance, it’s all I can do to keep myself from squirming in my seat like a restless toddler.

When it’s finally over, he fixes me with the same level, earnest gaze as in the pub. I owe him an apology, and he is clearly waiting for it. I can’t help but feel I owe him so much more. The truth worked exceedingly well last time, so against my base Slytherin nature, I decide to try it out again.

I tell him that he was not the only one who felt jealous. That I had envied him Potter’s friendship, and went out of my way to make his life horrible in retaliation. I let him know that despite everything I had, or that he thought I had, I was never truly happy. And then, I admit something I never thought I would.

“It took me hours - and I mean many hours, over the course of multiple days - to write the lyrics of ‘Weasley is Our King.’”

I’m met with total silence from Weasley, until he breaks into uproarious laughter, clutching at his belly and shaking the table. His face turns almost as red as his hair. It’s not a totally bad look on him.

“Oh, Merlin Malfoy. That’s priceless,” he says, wiping tears from his eyes. “Most blokes just pull the ponytails of their crush. Not you, though. Nope. You tormented Harry for years, in increasingly elaborate ways. You were such a bloody wanker.”

I am frozen solid in my chair. Crush on...Potter? What the bloody fuck? Oh, that’s good, I should use that. “Excuse me? What the bloody fuck are you on about? I never had a crush on Potter-“

“Oh, it’s all perfectly obvious now,” Weasley interrupts, waving a hand in my direction. “You two circled each other like Kneazles in heat for years. Someone should have screamed ‘just shag already’ at you both ages ago, it might have saved us all years of turmoil.”

“And again, I say, what the bloody fuck?” Weasley rolls his eyes at me. “What makes you think I even fancy blokes?”

Weasley looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Uh, well you’re here with me, a bloke. We are on a date, in public. Even if it is fake. Am I missing something?”

I could say it’s all for the bet, but you get more flies with honey than with vinegar. “Is that why you are here? Do you fancy blokes?”

There is a flash in Weasley’s eyes, gone so quick I can’t quite grasp the emotion. But he’s here with me for a reason, and it’s more than the bet, and it’s more than a chance to yell at me for a few hours. His face quickly settles back into a serene mask, and he answers, “well, I did have a pretty hefty crush on Krum back during the World Cup and Tri-Wizard Tournament.”

“Merlin, who didn’t?” I reply. “Those Durmstrang boys had lovely uniforms. Very form-fitting trousers, I thought. Not that the Beauxbaton girls didn’t dress to impress.”

“You’re alright, Malfoy,” Weasley says with an easy grin. And coming from him, after two hours of listening to him list my boyhood sins, it feels like high praise indeed.

“We should do this again sometime,” I say before I even think about it.

“We should,” Weasley replies wonderingly. “We really should.”

~~~***~~~

The following Friday finds me at the pub again, meeting Weasley for after-work drinks. Left to my own devices, I would have allowed a period of no less than two weeks to transpire before arranging another outing, so as not to seem overly eager. However, it was Weasley’s suggestion, and as I must remember, this is not an actual date. Just two blokes having a drink together. Plus, the opportunity to see Weasley in his official Auror uniform yet again is possibly at wee bit of an incentive.

It also gives me an excuse to avoid Pansy. She’s been hounding me for information on my ‘date.’ It’s been increasingly difficult to shake her off. I swear, there must be harpy blood somewhere in the Parkinson gene pool.

Weasley is already at the pub when I arrive. He’s sitting at a table full of Aurors and Gryffindors, much like last time. I falter slightly at the threshold, unsure if I am being set up for some elaborate joke at my expense. Of course, it’s Granger that sees me, and she rolls her eyes as she leans towards Weasley and whispers in his ear. My time tip-toeing around the Manor, trying to discern the mood of the Dark Lord, has left me quite accomplished at reading lips. I easily make out Weasley’s reply, “actually, he’s meeting me.” Weasley fails to notice Granger’s aghast expression, or the pain in her eyes as he vacates the table. Salazar, what have I gotten myself into, fraternizing with a sodding Gryffindor? And a member of the Golden Trio, no less.

Weasley looks good. Nice. Fuck. Let’s try again. Weasley looks much less bedraggled than he did at school. Like a professional, well put together. Yes, that was much better.

As opposed to Potter, whose ratty, manky trainers stick out like a sore thumb next to his Auror robes, Weasley has a gorgeous pair of boots on his feet. Very tasteful, most likely leather, possibly of the dragon variety. I’m impressed.

He also has an easy smile on his face, and greets me with a warm, firm handshake. We sit at an unoccupied table, and I make sure to arrange the seats so I am facing away from Potter and his cronies. Weasley’s smile changes to a rueful sort of look. “This might not have been the best meeting place,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck.

“I’m sure it’s nothing a few beverages can’t fix,” I say with a smirk. “Buy the first round to make it up to me?”

“Done!” he exclaims, pointing his finger at me and rising from his chair. “Too bad you weren’t always this easy to please. We might have been mates long ago.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find that I’m anything but easy,” I murmur. He stops dead, and I realize just how suggestive that statement sounded.

I’m about to brush it off, make a joke, when Weasley replies, in a somewhat husky voice, “will I, now? Something to look forward to, down the road.”

I am going to need a lot of drinks to make it through the evening.

~~~***~~~

A half dozen drinks in and a couple of hours later, we have somehow cast a muffliato on our table and started discussing our private lives, of all things.

“I wouldn’t say I’m properly gay. I like fanny too.”

I can’t help but wince at the crass wording. “I wouldn’t say I’m ‘properly gay’, either. If that’s how we are going to label it.”

“Now Neville, he’s properly gay. 100%, all cock action, fuck me in the arse gay.”

“Sorry to burst your little bubble, Weasley, but Longbottom is not gay. He’s been diddling Pansy for months.”

“Oh, I know. That’s how he figured out he loves cock. Said Parkinson liked to fuck him hard with an enormous, rigid penis. Some type of strap-on, Muggle sex toy. Neville couldn’t get enough. He’s moved on to the real thing now, found a nice bloke at the greenhouse where he works, hung like a hippogriff. Told me to look into the ‘reverse cowgirl’ position.”

Merlin, I apparently hadn’t been listening closely enough when Pansy was discussing riding monstrous cocks and Neville Longbottom. Picturing Longbottom taking up the arse, riding a massive fake prick and writhing on top of Pansy, was not a totally unpleasant image. I nonchalantly cross my legs to quell the rising excitement happening in my trousers.

“This is what you Gryffindors discuss?” My cheeks flush pink just imagining myself telling Greg or Blaise something like that. “Don’t you have any shame?”

“None,” Weasley replies, wagging his eyebrows up and down. “No, but seriously, Neville probably wouldn’t have told us. Parkinson was threatening to sell the story if he didn’t do her some favours. It was basically blackmail, but Harry and I couldn’t talk him into pressing charges. He decided to take the power away from her, and tell the story himself.” Weasley whistles and shakes his head. “Godric, was she pissed. Nearly destroyed Neville’s priceless flowering something-or-other. He called me to escort her off the premises.”

“Speak of the she-devil, and she shall appear,” I say wryly. In a louder voice, I turn to the person approaching our table, bring down the muffliato, and ask, “Pansy, to what do we owe this immense...pleasure?”

“Just thought you boys could use some drinks,” she simpers, flashing her cleavage at Weasley while fluttering her eyelashes. “Especially Ronald. He’s out there, every day, protecting us and keeping us safe. So...heroic.”

Even for Pansy, she’s laying it on pretty thick. Luckily, Weasley has a great sense of humour. “That’s right. Saving the wizarding world one boring meeting and pointless memo at a time.”

Pansy titters. Titters! As if she is some halfwit slut, and not the brilliant, conniving (but still rather a slut), witch that I know her to be. She hands us each a large shot of firewhisky, and announces, “bottom’s up” in a girly voice, tilting the alcohol down her throat in one swallow.

Weasley shrugs his shoulders at me, and we do the same. As I turn to pass my empty glass to Pansy, I see that telling, feral look on her face. She’s starring at Weasley like she’s a Niffler who just found a great treasure.

“Time to answer some questions,” she sing-songs, holding up a tiny, clear bottle with one word on the label. Veritaserum. My entire body tenses up, and small droplets of sweat form at my hairline. “I was only able to procure enough for one of you,” she says sadly, an over-exaggerated pout on her full lips. From the way she has Weasley set in her sights, it’s not hard to guess who has been doused.

I expect Weasley to be furious, and he is, but not in the way I had thought. The old Weasley would have jumped up, screaming obscenities and hunting for backup. Auror Weasley fixes Pansy with a piercing glare, and calmly states, “Veritaserum is a controlled Potion. You just illegally poisoned me.”

Pansy’s face falters, and her eyes start shifting around the pub. She’s planning her get-away route, I can tell. However, Weasley speaks up again. “I’ll answer three questions, that’s it, and then you get the fuck out of here. Otherwise I will throw you in a Ministry holding cell with the rest of the miscreants and let the Senior Aurors deal with you tomorrow.”

Pansy gets right to the point. “Why did you go on that date with Draco?”

Weasley rolls his eyes. “I already answered this. Because he asked. Next question.”

Pansy is flabbergasted, and totally thrown off her game. But she recovers quickly. “I thought you hated Draco?”

“I thought I did, too. And I guess I did. But I don’t, anymore. Last question.”

Pansy glares back at him, then bites out, “where do you see this going, with Draco?”

“I see us grabbing drinks, eating food, perhaps taking in a Quidditch match.” He shrugs his shoulders, apparently completely at ease. But his eyes are full of steel when he says, “now leave us alone. In fact, don’t ever both us again.”

She smiles, and it almost makes her face look pretty for a moment. “Draco and I are old friends, I could never bother him.” She leans towards me, and whispers in my ear, “I don’t know what the fuck is going on here, but a couple of sexless dates does not equal a seduction.” She struts out of the pub, swinging her ass in a way that has over half the male wizards and a fair few witches gaping lustily after her.

As if I give a shit about that stupid bet. It was all just to get her to shut up in the first place.

I glance over at Weasley, who has somehow got another round of drinks delivered to the table. “What a piece of work,” he says. Understatement of the year.

“Yeah,” I agree, toying with my glass. “Why did you let her get away with that?”

“People like her, they don’t just give up. She would have resorted to crueler methods, had this failed.”

Perceptive of Weasley, damn perceptive. It’s ‘the people like her’ that rankles a bit. It hits a bit close to home, because he could be describing me, particularly how I acted at Hogwarts.

Why is he here, getting drinks with an old nemesis, when he has a whole gaggle of friends and colleagues across the pub he could sit with? “What the fuck are you doing here, Weasley?” I bite out, with more venom than I intended. I’m as prickly as a Hungarian Horntail. Damn Pansy for ruining this.

Then I remember that Weasley is still under the influence of Veritaserum. I find I’m not quite ready to hear the truth of why he is getting drinks with me. “Never mind,” I mumble into my glass as a take a sip to steady my nerves. “I’ll try not to ask any more questions until the Potion wears off.”

Weasley studies me serenely. “No, I don’t mind,” he says easily. “The entrance exams to the Aurors were pretty intense. I was questioned - or should I say, interrogated - under Veritaserum three different times. Weeding out the liars, and mentals, I guess. So I’m used to it.”

“That’s...that’s barbaric,” I whisper with a shudder. I can’t imagine having all my deepest and darkest secrets laid out on display like that.

“Even Muggle Aurors go through a similar procedure, I guess. It’s called a lie defector or something. It was embarrassing at first, but I got over it.”

He is so nonchalant, so cavalier, about the whole thing, I can’t help the admiration that I feel. Salazar’s wrinkly bollocks, the end is nigh. A Malfoy, feeling genuine admiration for a Weasley! Father would skin me alive. Well, he’d have a house elf do it. Wouldn’t want to get his own hands dirty.

“Anyway, like I said, I don’t mind answering your questions. Friendly, non-invasive questions.” He shoots me a mocking smile. “So, why am I here?” Almost on reflex, he looks back over his shoulder at the tables where his friends sit, laughing and drinking. “It seemed like an opportunity to start making new friends. My own friends.”

That I understand. “Why me?” I wonder. “Our history...”

“Why not?” he replies, but I can see the Veritaserum compelling him to answer the question more thoroughly. “You were there, and you told me that ridiculous story about Parkinson and the bet, and I thought, ‘what do I have to lose? At least I’ll get a decent meal and a chance to yell at the git out of it.’ And then, I actually had fun, and you seemed different, yet still the same, and it didn’t matter about our history. I’m so sick of everything revolving back to the past. ‘Oh, you were part of the Golden Trio.’ ‘Oh, you helped Harry Potter defeat Voldemort.’ I guess I just want to move on, yah know?”

I follow his gaze as he sneaks another glance back at Potter and his cronies.  There is an unreadable emotion clouding his eyes.  And something clicks into place. “You’re in love with him,” I say haltingly.

“That’s not a question.”

“Do you want me to ask?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“Ok,” I say nervously, as I wipe my hands on my trousers underneath the table. I hope he can’t tell how jittery I am. “Are you in love with Harry Potter?”

“No,” he replies quickly. He smiles a lopsided smirk, and continues, “not anymore.”

“Uh...oh,” I stutter, just for something to say. I lean back in my chair and take stock of the situation. Weasley seems completely relaxed. There is no tell-tale blushing, no nervous twitching. He’s calm and open.

“How about you, Draco?” he says, his tone turning almost mocking when he says my given name for the first time. “Still harbouring a crush on the wonderful Potter?”

The words seem biting, but his voice holds no real heat, just pleasant inquiry. I’m not forced to answer by the pull of controlled Potion in my veins, thank Merlin. “No,” I say thoughtfully. “I’m not sure I ever did.” What I wanted was for Potter to notice me, to see me as an equal. And, failing that, I wanted to get under his skin.  
  
“That seems...unlikely,” Weasley says, not unkindly. “So, you just stalked him for fun? ‘Cause you seemed a bit obsessed, mate. I didn’t think about it too much at the time, just assumed you were the world’s biggest wanker. But later, when the war was over, and I figured out my own feeling towards Harry, it seemed obvious that you were hooked on him, too.”

“Maybe there was something there,” I admit, “but it would take me a lot of self contemplation and copious amounts of firewhisky to sort it all out. Best to leave it all in the past, where it belongs.”

“Fair enough.” And he lets it drop, just like that. Even though I would like to do a little more prodding, as far as his feeling towards Potter are concerned, I decide to do the same, for the sake of this newfound, fledgling friendship.

Then Potter is there, in the flesh, standing awkwardly at our table. As he raises a hand and murmurs, “hey,” I realize that the muffliato charm has been down since Pansy dropped by. Which means that Potter could have heard us discussing him at any moment. Potter. Could have heard us discussing him. As in, a possible crush I might have had. Salazar and all the Founders, I am glad he wasn’t even a minute earlier. The sweet release of death at the hands of the Dark Lord would have looked good compared with Potter thinking I was hot for his form.

“So, a bunch of us are going into Muggle London to go ice skating at Somerset House. You wanna come?” This question, of course, is aimed directly at Weasley. Potter has not even glanced in my direction.

Weasley looks back and forth between us. “No, thanks,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to figure out what Potter’s deal is. “I have plans with Draco tonight.”

“Draco. Draco?” Potter spits venomously. “What, you and Draco are best mates now?”

“No,” Weasley replies, still speaking in a slow, regulated tone. “But he is a friend. And you are being kinda rude, Harry.”

“Did you forget that he tried to kill you in sixth year?” Potter is fuming. He still refuses to look my way, and I have had quite enough.

“You insufferable prat, I never tried to kill Ron,” I hiss, my mouth only slightly hesitating on using Weasley’s first name. But since he just called me Draco, I figure it’s probably important, right now. “I was trying to kill Dumbledore.”

Weasley - Ron - snorts and shakes his head, while Harry whips himself around and finally faces me. “Oh, yeah, ‘cause that makes it ok. Fuck, Malfoy, you are still a right foul git, you know that, right? What have you done to Ron? Some sort of spell, or a Potion? I can’t imagine why else he’d-“

“That’s enough,” Weasley cuts him off. “I’m the one hanging out with Draco, not you. I’m not asking you to become his mate. But you will be civil in my presence.” Potter shuffles his feet like a chastened child. “And you will acknowledge that I am an adult, who can make his own decisions, even if you don’t agree with them.”

Now we’ve come to the heart of the matter. It is written all over Potter’s face. He’s jealous. Of what, I couldn’t even begin to guess. But it’s there, screwing up his expression.

“Fine. You know what, that’s fine. Don’t come crying to me and Hermione when this ‘friendship’ goes tits up.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Weasley murmurs, but Potter doesn’t hear. He’s already spun away on his heel, and stalked back to the group waiting huddled at the tables across the pub. Potter leads them out, physically pulling Granger by the arm when it looks like she would like to come argue with Ron. Her expression is equal parts furious and crestfallen. Even my icy Slytherin heart feels a slight tug of sympathy.

“That went well,” Weasley drawls. I meet his eyes, and a huge smile breaks out on his face. I answer with a smirk of my own. “‘I was trying to kill Dumbledore’? Was that really the best you could do?” At this, he bursts out laughing.

“It was the truth,” I reply with a shrug. Weasley seems to find this equally humorous, and his laughter fills the pub, causing other people to look over at our table and smile. “Seriously, though, I don’t want to come between you and your friends.” Mostly because I know I will get dumped on my elegant arse if he’s forced to make a choice.

Weasley waves a hand at me while he gets his mirth under control. It’s amazing how quickly he is able to master his emotions now. “No, this rift has been growing for a while. Harry just refuses to acknowledge it, and he would love to blame it on me, or you, or anyone but himself. Don’t worry about it.”

Weasley takes a long pull on his drink, and I attempt to do the same, but it has grown warm and flat. He notices my grimace, and says, “maybe we should call it a night?”

I nod, feeling unsure of where this leaves us. As always, my face gives away no hint of my doubts. Still, Weasley’s Auror skills are second to none. Either that, or he can read my mind. He leans forward in his seat, looking me right in the eye with a soft look.

“Hi, I’m Ron Weasley. Wanna go to the Canon’s game with me next week? I’ve got box seats.” He sticks his hand out over the table, like we are meeting for the first time. And we kind of are. As Ron and Draco.

“Draco Malfoy, charmed,” I reply haughtily, and shake his hand. For some reason, I’m loathe to let go. Ron’s eyebrows raise slightly, and his mouth quirks in a half-smile. “As abysmal as your taste in Quidditch teams may be, I would very much enjoy attending the match with you. I’m sure the stellar company will make up for the utter lack of skill on field.”

“Prat,” he says good-naturedly.

“Git,” I answer, with a smile on my face.

That night, when I’m getting ready for bed, I wonder why my face hurts. And I realize it’s because I spent most of my night smiling at Weasley. At Ron.

~~~***~~~

I may have fibbed about the state of my trust fund.

Wars are expensive. That was what Lucius A. Malfoy told me when I turned seventeen and had access to the vault set up for me from the Black fortune. “Wars are expensive.” Like I didn’t already know that. I had paid dearly, with something more valuable than money, beginning in sixth year.

What my dear father really meant was, buying his way back into being the Dark Lord’s favourite pet Death Eater was expensive. It wasn’t enough to turn over Malfoy Manor. Galleons were needed for fake paperwork, bribes, Potion ingredients, and a thousand other little things to ensure that our side won. The Pureblood side.

I did a little snooping in seventh year, and do you know what I discovered? The Dark Lord, aka Tom Riddle, was a Halfblood! What a crock of shit. All that anti-muggle, Pureblood propaganda was such a farce. People like my Mother, born into a Pureblood family of privilege, hitched their star to a mad man, blinded by his promises of power and increased wealth. Greedy fools. They didn’t even research their new ‘Lord’.

Regardless, bound to the Dark Lord we were. I can’t say I was a very devoted subject, at the end.

He was cruel, and he made me be cruel too, against my will. I know, it’s easy to dismiss this, seeing as how I’ve always been a bit of a vicious bastard. For some reason, when I didn’t have a choice, my eyes were finally opened to the misery I had been inflicting my whole life.

When Potter showed up at the Manor, Weasley and Granger in tow, prisoners of the Snatchers, something inside of me snapped. As much as I had hated these people, thought ill of them, and, let’s be honest, thought I was better than them, I could not willingly hand them over to the Dark Lord. Maybe it was to spite my Father. But I don’t think so. It felt good, that act of defiance. It gave me hope, that we might make it through to the other side.

After my trial, my first stop was Gringott’s. The goblins had meticulously kept paperwork, documenting each withdrawal from the trust vault. I recognized my own handwriting on the first three or four transactions, but after that, it was pages of forged signatures. Lucius had been desperate. And for what?

In the end, I had less than a thousand Galleons left.

That may sound like a small fortune to some people, but really, it’s not. Not when you have no house, no job, and no foreseeable way to make an income. Also, no family or friends able to help you out. Times were tough all around.

That evening, Greg and I got fall-down, sloppy drunk. Greg’s trial had been a few weeks back. Mostly for using unforgivable curses in seventh year, under orders from the Carrows. He was eventually sentenced to Community Service in the Janus Thickey ward at St Mungo’s. Seeing the permanent damage repeated use of the Cruciatus curse could do to a wizard changed Greg’s whole outlook. He is an old softie, deep down.

Greg was in much the same boat as I was; minimal assets, and no way to get a job. Greg had tried, but the Goyle last name had led to a lot of doors slamming in his face.

That was how I ended up sinking almost all my remaining Galleons into Greg’s new business. “If you could do anything, anything at all, what would you do?” I had slurred.

“I don’t know, I’m not good at much,” he said plainly. It had hurt my heart. “I like building stuff, I guess. Fixing stuff up. It feels nice, when something gets wrecked, to put it back to rights.”

Greg had started helping with the Hogwarts restoration in his spare time on the weekends. At first, he was mocked, then pointedly ignored. After a few weeks, and an amazing amount of perseverance on his part, he had been accepted. He was up there with Snape in the Slytherin bravery department, as far as I was concerned.

“You should set up a company. Construction. Building and fixing and...what have you. I’ll give you the startup money.”

It was a stupid, drunken idea that shouldn’t have worked. But surprisingly, it did. Greg was earnest and gracious, and word quickly spread. The money made got reinvested back into the business, and pretty soon, Greg was hiring more employees and branching out into home design and decorating. Millicent Bulstrode came on board to run that department.

In the two years since we opened the business, our net profits rose to the tens of thousands of Galleons mark.

That’s where the money for my charity work comes from. But I let everyone go on believing that I am swimming in a sea of Malfoy and Black Galleons. Attaching the name of Draco Malfoy to Greg’s business would be suicide. He’s finally made a good, honest name for himself, and I will not be the one to screw it up. I am happy to be a silent backer, taking care of the accounts and ledgers.

Greg’s Construction. That’s the business name. Greg chose it, obviously. And I’m glad he did. Had it been up to me, there would have been an amusing pun, or fancy alliteration. Greg’s way is upfront and simple, just like him. It’s perfect.

It’s the thing I am the most proud of, even if only Greg, Millicent and I are aware of my involvement. I helped make something worthwhile. A business that brings people joy. I’m a part of that.

~~~***~~~

The Chudley Cannons colours are orange and...well, just more eye-blinding, gag-inducing orange. Weasley is covered in it. Merlin, I miss his beautiful Auror cloak and robes already. At least the violent orange replica Cannons Quidditch robe he wears fits him like a glove. I could do without the glaring hat shoved on his head, clashing brilliantly with his red hair. Although, it does make the strands at the back curl up quite nicely.

As predicted, the Cannons are appallingly awful. The Chasers drop the Quaffle. The Beaters miss the Bludger, or send it hurtling at top speed towards their own players. The Keeper is quite good, though. She darts between the hoops so fast, she is almost reduced to a blur. But stellar Keeping skills can’t compete with the all-around talent of a high caliber team like Puddlemere United.

I wonder if Weasley knew that Puddlemere is one of my favourite teams, when he asked me to this match. Poor sod, he’s spent most of the time with his head in his hands, peeking out between his fingers and groaning at the ridiculous mistakes his team makes.

Finally the Cannons call for a time out, and Weasley sits up, uncovering his face and looking at me sardonically. “We suck.”

“Your Keeper’s alright.”

He perks up a little bit and offers me a smile. “Julia Babcock? Yeah, she’s really coming on. The new Seeker this year, Sean McDougall, he’s looking pretty good too. He’s caught the snitch in over half of the games. But we still usually lose. Too bad the Chasers couldn’t hold onto the Quaffle with mom’s enormous purse.”

“Speaking of your family,” I say, and his eyes narrow in response. I throw my hands up in the air to show him I mean no harm. “I’m just wondering why this box is empty, that’s all.” We are taking up a total of two of the fourteen seats available in the box.

“You’re pretty bright, Malfoy,” Weasley says wonderingly.

“Second-best in our year at Hogwarts,” I murmur. If he hears me, he chooses to ignore it.

“Turns out, season’s box seats for the Canons aren’t bank vault breaking. Practically giving them away.” He chuckles. “But you are right, good eye, Malfoy. I bought a box that would fit everyone in my family, plus their significant others. They just don’t come very much.”

“And Potter and Granger?” I wonder.

He fiddles nervously with the cuff on his Canon’s robe, but his face remains impassive. “Weellll,” he says, stalling for time. “Harry is Ginny’s boyfriend. And when I bought the seats, Hermione and I were still together, so...” he trails of without any further explanation.

“Right,” I say. “Look, the match is about to start up again.”

“COME ON CANNONS, YOU CAN DO IT,” Weasley screams. Then, he leans in close to me, and in a softer voice, he says, “they really can’t, you know, but they need the encouragement.”

Despite the room in the box, our shoulders are now touching, and I find that I like this easy, friendly camaraderie I have with Weasley. It’s not something that I’m used to. Blaise is always assessing the situation, trying to decide how he should act to have everything work out to his best advantage. Pans is...well, Pansy is kind of a manipulative cow, actually. The one who might have been good for that was Greg, and I never gave him the chance, back when we were young. I always thought I was better than him; smarter, better looking, more athletic. Somewhere along the way, he bought into it. He and Vincent both did. Fuck, I was a prick, wasn’t I?

Weasley is astute, I’ll give him that. He picks up on my mood change right away, and shifts over, away from me, muttering “sorry” as he does.

Great. Way to go, Draco. Still being a dick to your friends. “No, don’t be,” I say, and grab his upper arm with my hand. Merlin, Auror training has done this scrawny boy some good. His bicep feels hard and tight beneath my grip. “It wasn’t you. I was just thinking...this has been surprisingly...pleasant.”

Weasley snorts, and mutters, “pleasant? Stuck-up blond twat.” But he also leans back into me again, so I know he’s just teasing. “I guess that’s high praise, coming from the Slytherin Ice Prince.”

“Yes, it is,” I reply regally. I can’t help the smile that breaks out on my face. Slytherin Ice Prince, really? “Did you and your cronies call me that in school?”

“Fuck, no,” he says, looking amazed. “That would have been too close to a compliment.” He looks at me slyly, from the corner of his eyes. “I liked to call you ferret-face, after fourth year. Of course, I had some other choice, crude insults I used to describe you as well.”

“Of course, of course,” I murmur. Looking back on it now, years later, I can see how the Moody Imposter bouncing my ferret body around like a ball for the amusement of the Golden Trio must have been quite humorous. For them. Not for me, obviously, or for Greg, when my little ferret claws got intimately close to his...delicate area. Salazar.

My companion has been silent for the last few moments. Because he is literally shaking with contained mirth. His whole body twitches with the effort to keep it in, but it’s a hopeless cause. His laughter bursts out, light and melodic and sweet, and he throws an arm around my shoulders and squeezes. “Draco Malfoy, the incredible bouncing ferret. Merlin’s beard, Malfoy. You really were a wanker, yeah?”

His warm arm resting on my back takes all the sting from his words. Is this how friendships normally work? Gentle ribbing, good-natured teasing, shared confidences and time spent happily in each other’s company? No hidden agendas, no plots or schemes? It’s...refreshing. Also totally terrifying, but refreshing, none the less. I sink back in my chair, into Weasley’s warmth, and bask in this newfound companionship.

I don’t even mind when McDougall catches the snitch, and the Canons win, ten points over Puddlemere.

~~~***~~~

I’ve come to a realization. It’s a bit of a bitter Potion to swallow, to tell the truth.

I’m self-centred and spoiled.

Right, ok, no one is shocked by this statement. It’s been thrown in my face before. It’s just...I never really thought about it too much, you know? From my earliest memories, my parents told me how wonderful I was, and special, and talented. So I believed them. Why wouldn’t I? They were my parents, I believed and trusted everything they told me. I learned cruelty and ignorance at my father’s knee, before I was old enough to speak. Of course I didn’t question their teachings.

When children were invited to the Manor to play, it just solidified my arrogance. Greg and Vincent followed me around like little trained crups, doing whatever I suggested. Pansy hung on my every word, staring at me adoringly, even back when she was still in nappies. I had a gang of loyal followers before I even arrived at Hogwarts. I thought it was my due, as a Malfoy and a Black. That’s what I’d been taught.

It was quite a shock to learn that not everybody felt that way. In fact, it was only the oldest Pureblood families who still clung to some type of hierarchical ranking based on family names.

For one mad, glorious moment, I thought about throwing it all away. Pushing down my prejudices, and my pride, and doing my own thing, outside of the huge shadow that my parent’s beliefs cast. I offered Harry Potter, mortal enemy of the Dark Lord, a scruffy, bewildered, yet cute Halfblood, my friendship.

We all know how that ended. I was spurned, Potter chose Weasley, and I held onto my Pureblood ideals with more strength than ever. Because if they were true, than I was still special.

It’s still hard to let go of it all, sometimes. Even now, two years after the war has ended, I catch myself wondering why I need to wait in line in Gringotts. Or why it’s necessary to complete mountains of tedious paperwork to appease the Ministry. Father wouldn’t have done it.

What I have learned is that it wasn’t the Malfoy name that gained Father these favours. They were all bought and paid for. Some with Galleons, some with intimidation and blackmail. There was no real respect felt for Lucius Malfoy. Just fear and loathing.

I don’t want to be my Father. I can finally cast off that shadow, and step out into the light. I can make my own way.

Now, I have a choice to make. I’ve been sulking around my flat, cursing Weasley’s name for not contacting me since our Quidditch outing. Because I’ve never had to make the first move, except that one time, with Potter. People always swarmed around me, clambering for my attention. So I can wait for Weasley to owl, or I can swallow my pride and contact him.

When I stop to think about it, Weasley has really put himself on the line for me. For our friendship. He met me for drinks in a pub occupied by all his friends. He took me to a Quidditch game where his family could have shown up at any time. He has declared, most publicly, that he wants to spend time with me. Voluntarily.

The least I can do is reciprocate. Frankly, the thought of losing what I’ve built with Weasley makes me break out in a cold sweat. I need it. And so, I also need a plan.

I settle on showing up at the Ministry to ask him out for lunch. It’s sort of a grand gesture, in that it will be very public, and show my fondness for him in front of his friends and colleagues. Yet it is simple. Just two mates grabbing a bite to eat. Happens all the time.

The care I take in dressing myself is nothing short of embarrassing. If Weasley could see the mound of discarded robes on my bed, I would be mortified. I finally settle on black robes that look quite ordinary at first glance, but are actually a very expensive, expertly tailored garment I custom ordered in Italy, after I knew Greg’s Construction was going to make it. They make my arse look divine.

From the moment I set foot in the Ministry, things fall apart. First, I have trouble getting a visitor’s pass, as I have no appointment booked. Next, the reception witch is reluctant in the extreme to let me go gallivanting off through the Ministry on my own. She seems to doubt my story of surprising a friend for lunch, and refuses to message Weasley. Security is called, and after a hissed conversation, I am granted access to the lifts, as long as Serge, my assigned Security Guard, keeps me in his sight at all times. Salazar’s frilly knickers, I want nothing more than to floo home, pour myself a generous helping of strong spirits, and forget all about this miserable day.

Instead, I grit my teeth and persevere, leading my hulking friend over to the lifts. We get off on level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services.  Now, to find Weasley.

I wind my way through corridors, past open office doors, around people who have stopped, mid conversation, to gawk at me. Finally, at Auror Headquarters, a middle-aged witch with sleek auburn hair points me in the direction of a bank of cubicles. Weasley’s head is visible, brighter and taller than the rest, peeking out above the partition around his desk. As I draw closer, I see that he has his feet propped on the desk, and he is chewing on the end of a quill, completely lost in thought.

“Good afternoon,” I say formally. I tend to fall back on inborn manners when I am nervous. “Would you be interested in going out for lunch with me? Uh, today? Right now?” I roll my eyes internally. Not the smoothest I’ve ever been, but my presence is creating quite a stir. Heads are popping up in cubicles and out of doorways up and down the hallway.

“Sounds perfect, I’m famished,” Weasley replies, as he jumps to his feet and swings into his cloak. I can’t tell what he is thinking, at my sudden unannounced appearance at his place of employment; his face betrays nothing. “I need a break from this report. Come on, Malfoy, what are you waiting for?” He’s already striding down the hall, and has turned back to see me still stuck in place by his desk. It’s then that he notices my companion. “Oh, hey, Serge. I’ve got it from here. You should go get your own lunch, yeah? Let’s meet in the weight room after work.” And off my menacing guard goes, docile as a kneazle kitten. Weasley is an ace at handling people.

“Where did you have in mind for lunch?” he asks gently.

Fuck. “I uh...really hadn’t thought that far ahead,” I admit, feeling foolish and slow.

“That’s ok,” he says, and bumps my shoulder with his. “I know the perfect place.” There is a slight pause, before he continues, “So, you were just in the neighbourhood, and decided to stop by? Did you have a meeting with another division in the Ministry?”

We have reached the floos, and are queuing up behind the other people leaving for a bite to eat. “No.” That’s all I can say. Because now this idea of lunch just seems stupid and juvenile and wrong, and I am such an idiot.

“You...you came to the Ministry, just to ask me out for lunch?” he asks incredulously.

I brace myself for the snide remark. The mocking jeer he is sure to make, at my expense. I would have done it, just a couple of years ago.

Weasley is not me, he is not an arse, and he is, at the present moment, my favourite person in the whole bloody world. Because he doesn’t mock me, or laugh at me. He simply says, “thanks, Malfoy. This is...unexpected.” He must read the misery rolling off my body, because he hastens to add, “but still nice. In fact, more nice because it is unexpected. It’s special, I guess.” And I get the pleasure of seeing Weasley’s unflappable facade crack for the first time, as his ears flush pink in the most delicious way.

Maybe I should step out of my comfort zone more often.

~~~***~~~

Lunch is perfect, although a bit too short for my liking. Weasley picks this nice little delicatessen on Knockturn Alley. “How in the heck did you find this place, Weasley?” I wonder, as I look around. It is bright and airy, unlike most of the establishments I have visited on Knockturn in the past. The bench seats are covered in supple, comfortable leather, and everything appears clean and well cared for. “You don’t seem like the type to spend too much time slumming with the ruffians who frequent this area.”

“Ah, but I am exactly that type. Auror, remember?” Merlin, I’m an idiot. “Regular patrol of Knockturn Alley was one of my first assignments. ‘Course, it’s changed a lot, in the last couple of years.”

As I glance out the window and gaze up the road, I realize he is right. Knockturn is almost unrecognizable. The word revitalized come to mind. My Father would hate it. The thought makes me happy, for some reason, and my mouth quirks up in a half-smirk.

The most notable absence is that of Borgin and Burkes, which is mind-boggling. That sinister old place had been around forever (“established in 1863, serving only the best wizarding families” I had heard Borgin remind my Father repeatedly over the years). I wonder idly if the Dark Arts have fallen so out of favour in the two years that the war ended, that the owners were forced to close up shop. Or perhaps they just relocated to somewhere a little quieter, where questioning Aurors were less likely to walk through the door, rifling through priceless artifacts and confiscating expensive and dangerous magical items.

The current resident of 13B, Knockturn Alley is still an antique store, of sorts. The sign boasts, “BLACK UNICORN, the rarest magical texts.” Even from my poor vantage point down the street, I can see that the shop is crammed with books, scrolls, parchments and more. I can almost smell the deep, delicious ink and the musky pages. I love old books. Flipping through the forgotten treasures in the Manor Library was one of my favourite pastimes as a lonely only child. Although I usually avoid busy wizarding areas, like Diagon and Knockturn, I know I will be making my way back to the Black Unicorn in the very near future.

A quick glance over the rest of the Alley reveals a modest but honest-looking Apothecary, a Healer’s office, a garden supply shop, a shoe-maker, and... “Sweet Merlin’s beard, what is that monstrosity?” At the very end of Knockturn, there is a large, luridly-coloured building, with an array of posters adorning the outside walls.

Weasley is looking at me from across the table fondly. “That’s a theatre. Muggle thing. It plays films, and the films tell a story. Like...well, kind of like our moving photos, but with sound, and it isn’t on a loop.” Weasley pauses, to make sure I am keeping up, and I nod dazedly. Muggle moving pictures. Salazar, times are changing. “Kingley’s idea. His goal is to reduce the divide between our two worlds, and to make the transition easier for Muggle-born wizards in our society. He’s set up a whole task force. And really, the films...well, they are quite brilliant, Malfoy. We’ll go see one together soon, yeah?”

I nod at him again, totally distracted, but still aware enough to take in his little smile. My mind is buzzing. What if...what if I had been exposed to Muggle culture, before Hogwarts? What if Father and Mother had? Would things have turned out differently? Possibly not, but now, for the upcoming generation, there is hope for mutual understanding, and perhaps, eventually, unity.

Or maybe that was already happening, in the other Houses, and it was just certain Pureblood Slytherins holding firmly to the old ways. Certainly the Gryffindors welcomed everyone with open arms. Like Granger. Despite the fact that she is a bossy know-it-all, she still managed to befriend Potter and Weasley. And snag the latter as her boyfriend for the better part of two years. I wonder what happened to them? Did Granger think she could do better? No, that couldn’t be it.

Because Weasley is...well, he’s actually quite fit, when I think about it objectively. Large, strong hands folded neatly on the table. Broad shoulders topping off a lean, toned body. He’s grown into his facial features a lot in the past couple of years. His nose has always been large, but now, it just makes him look distinguished instead of comical. And the freckles. They used to mar his appearance, like an unsightly scar. Somehow, his freckles have morphed, and changed into something endearing. They help light up his face. His lips are plush and pink, and when they curve into a smile, I can feel it, deep in the pit of my stomach. Finally, those blue, blue eyes. Piercingly blue, actually. They run deep, down into his soul. There is such intelligence in those eyes. I used to look at Weasley and see only anger and hatred reflected back. Now I am able to gaze deeper, and see the sadness, and humour, and caring in his endless blue eyes.

Merlin, did it suddenly get hot in here? I am flushed, and my neck and hairline have broken out in a thin sheen of sweat. In my haste to get dressed after trying on every item in my wardrobe, I neglected to throw on anything more than a pair of pants under my robes. Without thinking, I roll up the sleeves of my robe and undo the top button at my throat. Thankfully my parents aren’t around to see this glaring breach of etiquette.

I take a large gulp of ice water. Yes, that seems to have done the trick. I am decidedly less light-headed, and my skin feels less feverish already.

In the time I have been musing to myself, the delicatessen has gone silent. Everyone is staring at me. Some with horror and anger, others with shock, even one rather longingly. But confusingly, it’s not my face they are looking at. It’s my...oh Merlin fucking FUCK! It’s my left arm. I shove the sleeve of my robe down over the offending limb with blinding speed. How could I be so completely thoughtless and indiscreet?

I send a helpless glance at Weasley, but he’s not looking at my arm. His gaze is focused on my neck, where I’ve unbuttoned my robe. My mouth goes dry, and I swallow, hoping to rectify the situation. He mirrors my actions, and I find myself returning his gaze, staring at his throat, watching his strong Adam’s Apple bob alluringly.

“I could help you cover that up. Permanently, I mean. If you are interested.” Weasley has pulled his eyes away from my throat, and gestures towards my now covered arm.

“No magic can get rid of it,” I say tiredly. Believe me, I’ve tried. “But it has faded, and I am hopeful it will disappear, in time.” This is pretty much the last conversation an ex-Death Eater wants to have with his new Auror friend. “You don’t seem startled by it...” I trail off rather lamely.

“Harry told me about it, after your trial.” Ah, that explains it. Thanks ever so much, Potter, for announcing that I have been branded with the Dark Mark. “It doesn’t bother me, not anymore. And I wasn’t talking about using magic to get rid of it. Just covering it, making it something different. It’s another Muggle invention, I’m afraid. I hear it hurts, and it’s time consuming, but... Would you be interested?”

“Would you come with me?” I blurt out.

“Try and stop me,” he replies with a lazy grin.

~~~***~~~

It turns out that Weasley is mad. Full on barmy, to put it crudely.

His idea involves needles, and injecting ink under my skin! It’s totally boorish and cruel and if he thinks I’m going to sit here like a good little boy while someone mutilates my skin again and he watches, he’s got another thing coming.

I might have worked myself into a little bit of a state. Involving hyperventilating. “Bloody hell, Malfoy, get a hold of yourself. I knew you were a bit of a drama queen, but I never imagined you’d be so...squeamish. It doesn’t hurt that much.”

It’s not even the pain I’m scared of. Or the blood, as I’ve been warned about. It’s the memories. Taking the Dark Mark hurt. Intensely. And the worst part was, my Father and the Dark Lord and the rest of the Death Eaters sat there smiling, like they enjoyed watching me suffer. Father said it was because he was so proud of me, but that’s not how it seemed, at the time. It felt like a celebration, my branding. Like they found joy in my agony. It felt like they were rejoicing my lack of choice, and the travesty my life had become.

“I...” I don’t even know what to say.

Weasley looks at me, really studies me, and his face turns ashen. It makes the freckles even more pronounced, and I focus on the splatter adorning the bridge of his nose. Those little sun-kissed spots help ground me. “I’ve bollocksed this, haven’t I?” he asks sheepishly. “I didn’t think...and that’s always been my problem, hasn’t it, I never think things through. Merlin, Malfoy, I’m sorry. This was a bad idea.”

Through sheer force of will, I pull myself together. I am a Malfoy, and a Black, and as such, I do not have panic attacks in public. Definitely not in front of Ron Weasley. “What made you think it was a good idea, initially?” I ask. He narrows his eyes at me, like he thinks I’m accusing him of something. “No, honestly, I want to know. Explain your reasoning. Maybe you are right.”

He takes a deep breath, and dives right in. “Ok, well, magical tattoos, I know they don’t hurt, and are really safe, but they move. Change, you know? And I heard that the...mark...did that as well. Moved, sometimes, and changed colours. So I thought, what if it could be covered, but with something permanent? A picture, or symbol, or whatever, that really means something to you? It would be everlasting. A reminder of your strength, and your choice to overcome your circumstances. And because it is Muggle, it might work, where magic hasn’t.” There is a slight pause as he shifts side to side nervously, and rubs his nose. “I don’t know. That sounds pretty dumb, I guess.”

But it doesn’t. Not at all. It sounds really nice, actually. My chest lightens just listening to Weasley speak. He’s put a great deal of thought into this. And, for some unknown reason, he thinks quite highly of me. “Right.” I nod at him to buy some time while I gather my scattered thoughts. “Right. Yes, well, as it happens, I agree. Thank you for your explanation. I would like to proceed.”

“Are you...for real, Malfoy?” I nod at him once more. “Great! Ok, yeah. The first step is to pick your tattoo. Then we’ll talk to the artist, and make some appointments to have it completed. Any ideas?”

I stare around the walls of the shop, gazing blearily at the vast number of pictures hanging there. I don’t even know where to start. “Your help would be greatly appreciated,” I murmur.

I feel a quick squeeze of my fingers as Weasley engulfs my hand in his giant grip. “I have been brainstorming, actually, ever since our conversation at lunch. And I was thinking...what about a narcissus? It would be a show of affection to your mum, which is something common in Muggle tattoos, I’m told. Plus, the narcissus flower symbolizes rebirth and renewal. A fresh start, yeah?”

I imagine the disdain and contempt on Mother’s face if she heard one of the Weasleys calling her my mum. “Maybe not a narcissus,” I say gently. I don’t know what I want, but it isn’t a further tie to my parents, and their stodgy, modulated way of life. “But you are on the right track with that fresh start business.”

“There’s also the Phoenix. Rising from the ashes. Although, that may not be right for you,” he admits, and I have to agree. Merlin, imagine covering the Dark Mark with the symbol of Dumbledore’s secret Order. “I do have another idea...”.

He strides over to the tattoo artist, whose face lights up right away when Weasley starts speaking. She grabs a sketch pad and pencil from under the counter, and her hand flies over the page as she nods along. She’s got a look of fierce concentration on her face, and doesn’t even glance up when Weasley steps away and returns to my side. “Stop back in a couple of hours,” she calls, eyes still trained on the paper in front of her. Weasley grins at me and pulls me out of the shop, towards a Muggle pub.

We get sloshed. Right properly drunk, in the middle of the day, and it’s bloody marvellous. Somewhere after my fourth drink, I seem to develop a case of the giggles. Maybe the ginger git slipped me a cheering Potion. Because really, a Malfoy, grinning like a lunatic and guffawing at a Weasley’s antics? It’s ludicrous. But it feels so right and natural, like we’ve been doing this for ages.

“How did you discover this Muggle body art?” I ask, when I can finally catch my breath. The carefree grin slides right off my companion’s face. I’m worried that I’m not going to like this answer very much.

“Harry,” he says, glancing down at the impressive number of empty glasses littering the table in front of us. See, I knew it. My heart rate increases reflexively just hearing that name from Weasley’s lips. I can’t help it. There is a clamp around my heart, squeezing it tight, making it ache. Is this...jealousy that I’m feeling?

It is certainly a reminder, of the history between Weasley and Potter. They’ve been best mates for almost ten years. Since I so rudely made fun of Weasley on the Hogwart’s Express, in fact. How can a couple months of acquaintance or friendship or whatever the bloody hell I’ve got going on with Weasley, ever compete with a decade of camaraderie? And it’s more than that, between them, isn’t it? Not even taking into account Weasley’s ‘love’ for Potter, that decade together was no walk in the park. They share intense experiences, life and death moments, that would have defined their relationship past more than best mates. It’s impossible to compete with.

“So Potter’s got one of these needle-ink thingies?” I ask haughtily. I’m not sure I’m interested in adorning my body with something Potter has done first.

“Actually, no,” Weasley replies. He looks a little flustered, which doesn’t happen often. “Look, it’s not really my place to say too much. I’m not sure Harry would like us discussing him behind his back.” No kidding. “After the war, Harry had some...baggage. We all did, yeah?” Oh yes. I know all about post-war baggage. I’m a Malfoy, who was on the wrong side up until the last second. I’ve got trunks and trunks of baggage. I nod at him. “Well, he had some scars. Physical ones, magically made, that marred his body and acted on their own accord. My brother, Charlie, recommended the Muggle tattooing. He thought a permanent, non-magical ‘scar’ of Harry’s own choosing would help him, give him charge over his own life again, you know. But Harry had fallen in love with the magical world, despite his disgust at his role of Saviour.  He did get a tattoo, but in the end, he chose to get it done by another wizard. It is beautiful, actually. It moves and changes...I can’t describe it. But it’s a wonderful tribute, to the people we lost, to you-kno...to Voldemort.”

Through his whole speech, Weasley has been focused on the table in front of him. Now he lifts his gaze and locks eyes with me. “The idea of the constant, never-changing aspect of a Muggle tattoo always intrigued me. And I thought it might interest you, too.”

I can’t look away from those crystal-blue eyes, staring at me so imploringly. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out.

“Just...look at my idea...before you say no. Please,” he pleads in a low voice.

“Yes,” I whisper back. The atmosphere between us is so charged, I can almost feel it weighing me down, wrapping around us like a cocoon. We are in our own little world, here in this Muggle pub. The conversation and laughter of the other patrons has faded away, and it’s just Ron, leaning forward towards me earnestly. He’s all I can see.

~~~***~~~

How we get back to the shop is a hazy blur. I have got to stop indulging in copious potent drinks in Weasley’s presence. These alcohol-soaked outings are becoming all too common; he’s turning me into a lush. Or maybe it’s the man himself who leaves my brain so fuzzy.

The harsh lights of the Muggle tattoo parlour chase away the lingering shadows of our shared tender moment. We are back to being Weasley and Malfoy again, separated by our pasts and our status and our damn present circumstances.

An Auror - an unflappable, insightful, intelligent (top-ranked recruit of his year, according to The Daily Prophet. I wonder what Saint Potter thinks about that?) is helping me, Death Eater Junior, cover a mark made by some of the most cruel, foul Dark magic known to wizard kind. There is no way this ends well.

“Malfoy, come ‘ere. Check out the sketch Poppy drew up.” Weasley is leaning on the front counter, an open, happy smile on his face. “It turned out even better than I had imagined.”

I make my way towards him, stiffed-limbed and awkward. He budges over at the counter, tilting his body slightly so that I have room to approach. I don’t know what to expect, from this strange Muggle skin inker, but I am very pleasantly surprised with what she’s drawn up in a rather limited amount of time.

I reach out and trace the circular design with my finger. “That’s an Ouroboros,” Weasley says softly. His mouth is right next to my ear, and his breath puffs gently against the hair there, raising goose pimples on my neck. “Most of the time, it’s a snake, but I thought you’d prefer a dragon.” Now his hand has found its way onto my shoulder, and he gives it a light squeeze. “It’s eating its own tail, see? The Ouroboros is an ancient symbol, used a lot in alchemy. But is also symbolizes an eternal cycle of growth and renewal.”

“And the tree?” I ask in a whisper.

“The tree can have many meanings. Knowledge and wisdom. Strength and protection.” His voice dips a little lower, so I am straining to hear him. “Abundance and growth. Forgiveness and salvation.”

Sweet Merlin. Ronald Weasley came up with all of this? For me? “I’m not sure about that other circular bit, though,” I say, apologetically. The last thing I want to do is piss off Weasley, or, heaven forbid, Poppy, who will be marking my body soon enough.

“No worries,” Poppy replies easily. “That wasn’t actually suggested by Ron in the original design. I just had extra time and was fooling around a bit.” She quickly erases what I’ve pointed out, leaving the dragon encircling the tree. My heart instantly feels lighter. This is it. This is what I want, permanently on my skin, for all the world to see.

And Weasley designed it. More than that, he did research! This from the boy that used wide margins and extra-large handwriting just to complete the essays he was assigned at school. Who could often be seen, scribbling furiously at breakfast at the Gryffindor table, desperate to add another few inches to his work. Copying directly from Potter, or, if he was lucky, Granger. That same Weasley has taken the time and effort to contemplate my life, my personality, my likes and dislikes, and come up with not one, but multiple thoughtful, insightful tattoo ideas. Fucking mind-boggling, really.

“Thanks, Weasley,” I gasp, around the large lump in my throat.

“Aww, well, you know,” Weasley says gruffly, and slings an arm around my shoulder. “It will suit you. The design will have to be changed a smidge - made more into an oval, to fit on your arm. But I think it will work.”

“I can do that,” Poppy cuts in eagerly. “No problem. When would you like to come back and get started? I’ll have both your designs ready.”

“Next week, same time?” Weasley asks, tilting his head towards me. I nod my approval.

As we walk out of the shop, a thought hits me. “Wait, what design did you choose?”

Weasley grins his knowing, infuriating little smile, and replies, “a feather. Same place yours is going.”

“What’s the significance?” I wonder.

“Oh, a feather can have many meanings, depending on what bird it is from.” We continue walking in silence for a few steps. “But I like to think mine will symbolize truth, freedom, and perhaps, eventually, bravery.”

I want to make a disparaging comment about noble, earnest Gryffindors, but I find I can’t. “That will suit you as well,” I tell him instead. “Perfectly.”

The way Weasley’s ears tinge pink at the tips, and his neck flushes so prettily, is the ultimate reward.

~~~***~~~

No one uses my floo. I honestly can’t recall a single instance of receiving a floo call in my flat. In fact, I’ve set my wards specifically to prevent it from ever happening.

Which is why I nearly jump out of my skin, spilling my tea all down the front of my shirt and scalding my lap, when I hear “hello, Malfoy?” from across the room, and look up to see Weasley’s green face in the flames.

“Merlin’s hairy arse, Weasley,” I sputter, as I use my wand to clean up the tea. “What the fuck is your ugly ginger visage doing in my floo?”

It’s hard to tell through the flickering flames, and the greenish tinge to his face, but I think Weasley looks a little abashed. “Wanna get together sometime this week? Before our tattoo appointment?”

“This is why you’ve disrupted my tea? To see if I want to ‘get together’ with you? For fuck’s sake, Weasley, why didn’t you just owl me, like usual?” Weasley’s eyes dart shiftily from side to side. “Come to think of it, how did you gain access to my floo? It’s not on any registry. And I’ve set up wards against incoming calls.”

“Yeah, well about that...” he says sheepishly. “Your floo address is, of course, on the Ministry registry. And as a Junior Auror, I have my ways of getting around wards...”

I gaze at him, I fear, rather stupidly. “Are you saying that you, Ronald Weasley, Auror in training and hero to the wizarding world, broke the law to floo call me?”

“Uh...maybe?” He covers his face with a hand for a second. “Look, this was a bad idea Malfoy. I’m sorry I invaded your privacy. And spilled your tea. I’ll just go now, and send you that owl.”

“No, wait,” I say, rather loudly. I should be mad. I should be furious! But instead, I find I’m rather flattered. And flushed. Salazar, I’m in trouble. “You’ve gone through all this bother. Please, continue.”

“Yeah, ok,” he says, and takes a deep breath. “Look, I never thought I’d be saying this, but I enjoy spending time with you. I mean, obviously, since we do spend quite a bit of time together. And I’d like to do it more often. But it’s hard right now, because our lives are so separate, you know?” Another deep intake of breath. It’s a wonder he doesn’t choke on the ashes. “It’s always just the two of us.”

He drones on for a little while, but I’ve mostly blocked him out. I’m just dwelling on the part where Weasley said he wanted to spend more time together.

I’m snapped back to reality in a hurry when I hear him say, “...if you’d like a come to the theatre with a big group of us? Harry and Hermione, most likely, and some others, like Gin and Neville and maybe-“

“Oh, fuck no!” I interrupt, the words exploding out of my mouth. Not even the thought of seeing Longbottom to authenticate the dick riding story is incentive enough to hang out with a bunch of self-important Gryffindors.

Weasley’s got a small smile on his face, but it’s just making him look sad. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say,” he mutters quietly. “It’s fine. I’ll see you this weekend, for the tattoos, yeah?” He pulls his head back. In a second, it will be gone out of my fireplace, and I’ll have lost this chance forever.

“Wait!” I all but scream. He raises an eyebrow at me. “What if...what if I set up a dinner with a couple of my friends? Would that be acceptable?”

Now his smile is more genuine. “Not Parkinson?” he asks warily.

“Of course not,” I say, waving my hand in a dismissive gesture. The very thought! “Pansy’s not really someone I’d consider a friend. I’m not sure she has any real friends. A very unusual Slytherin, is Pansy Parkinson.”

Weasley looks intrigued. “Really? I didn’t realize Slytherins were known for their devoted friendships,” he says in a mildly derogatory tone. “I thought you just used each other for what you could get, and wrote people off when they were no longer useful.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” I ask, totally affronted.

“Uh, you and Parkinson. You in school. I mean, Goyle and Crabbe, they weren’t really your mates, right? More like henchmen. And Parkinson, she’s been using and blackmailing people since first year. It’s still her M.O.”

That’s fair. “I was a git in school, I thought we already established that,” I say, rolling my eyes at him. “If you amassed all your Slytherin knowledge from watching me and Pansy in school, I can see why you think poorly of us as a whole. I’ll be the first to admit, I wasn’t a good representation of the loyalty of Slytherin House. So what, you think of us as cunning? Ambitious? Maybe...ruthless? Willing to stab a friend in the back to succeed?” Weasley shrugs his shoulders uncomfortably. “It’s a common misconception. Take my word for it - Slytherin House was a big, devoted, steadfast family. We kept each other’s secrets, cheered each other’s victories, and mourned together over our losses. I wouldn’t want to be in any other House.”

In the end, I promise to set up a meal with at least one of my friends. Weasley pulls his head out of the fireplace, complaining about the soreness of his knees. And I’m left to stew over just who in Salazar’s name will do this for me.

I sigh, and move to the office for a piece of parchment and a quill. Poor Greg, I hope he doesn’t hate me too much when he receives the invitation.

~~~***~~~

Millie and Greg are dating now. I’d be worried about the business, and the potential fallout of the relationship ending badly, but they are just so sickeningly in love. This is it, for both of them, I can tell. It just cements in my mind what an upstanding, classy guy Gregory Goyle truly is.

Millicent Bulstrode was born male. Darling Millie, she always did know her own mind. It didn’t take her long to puzzle out her true identity. She’s tenacious. It speaks highly of her strength of character, as well as her parents’ love, that she was permitted to be raised as a female in an heir-crazy, Pureblood environment. By the time she came to Hogwarts, there wasn’t a question of her gender on anyone’s mind.

I suppose Dumbledore had something to do with Millie’s acceptance and placement in the girl’s dormitory. As much as I harbour ill feelings towards the old manipulative boot of a Headmaster, I do feel a small measure of warmth regarding Millicent’s positive treatment.

On our first night in Hogwarts, many moons ago, Millie sat the other first year girls down and explained her situation. People commonly think of Slytherins as shifty; willing to throw their friends under the bus to save their own skin. As I tried to tell Weasley, nothing could be further from the truth. As a House, we are fiercely loyal, and will protect our own at all costs. Because, let’s face it, who else will?

The girls in Millie’s dorm banded around her that night, pledging their friendship and assistance to their new Housemate. Well, that was at least true of Daphne Greengrass, Tracey Davis, and Lisa Lothrop. Pansy, the vicious little cow, gripped Millie’s hand and kissed her cheek, then ran and told her secret to the first year boys the first chance she got.

Merlin, I have never seen Severus Snape so angry. And remember, I have since seen him face off against Dumbledore, the Dark Lord, and numerous annoying Gryffindor students. His fury was a sight to behold.

I always assumed I’d be sorted Slytherin, but that night, I felt a sense of pride beyond the fulfillment of a centuries-old genealogical tradition. We were a family, dedicated to protecting each other, with a Head of House who would fight tenaciously for our rights. For an only child such as myself, it was comforting.

Millie threw no punches as she explained that yes, she had a penis and testicles, but no, that didn’t make her a boy. She just knew, deep in her soul, that she was a girl. Snape nodded, and eyed us all with a vicious stare, as if daring us to argue the point. He needn’t have worried. We accepted Millie is our midst, for who she was, and let the matter drop.

Except for Pansy. But Snape hit her with some sort of complicated spell that prevented her from spilling Millie’s secret again, and we got on with life.

Still, boys are curious, and we spent most of that first night at Hogwarts trying to figure it all out. “Why don’t they just magic off her bits, and replace it with a fanny?” Theodore Nott wondered, and the rest of us shrugged. A few years later, we learned that there was much more to the reproductive system than just the outer stuff, and it all made much more sense.

Although Millie had been accepted by most of the fellow students in her year, Pansy never really did get over the humiliation of her betrayal. She couldn’t divulge Millie’s secret, but she could try to embarrass the other girl at every turn.

Fourth year was just a shit year.  It was the start of a bunch of shit years, actually, but I didn’t know that at the time. Fourth year saw Quidditch cancelled, and Slytherin House overlooked yet again in the quest for glory, when Hufflepuff Cedric Diggory got named Champion in the competition for the Tri-Wizard Cup. Not that I begrudged Diggory too much. As a hero, he wasn’t half bad. Definitely good looking. Excellent at Quidditch. And he always treated everyone with respect, regardless of their House affinity. The Slytherins could get behind Diggory as the Hogwarts Champion. Then Potter’s name came flaming out of the Goblet.

There wasn’t a single person in Slytherin who could stand Harry Potter. He just got away with everything, didn’t he? Earned House points for breaking school rules. Assigned to the Quidditch team in first year, even though it WASN’T DONE. Now he was a bloody school Champion, even though he wasn’t of age? The favouritism was just ridiculous.

To take the edge off, the fourth year Slytherins had taken to playing Truth or Dare. It was a way to let off steam, while being comfortable in the fact that your secrets were safe with your fellow Housemates.

One night, in the middle of a cold snap in November, I had my first fumbling sexual experience.

Up until this point, the dares had been fairly clean. Kisses on the cheek or a quick peck on the lips were exchanged. Sometimes an item of clothing was taken off, or a dance performed. Harmless fun, really. But that night, Pansy took it to a whole new level. “Draco, I dare you to go into the closet with Millicent for seven minutes,” she smirked, with an evil gleam in her eye.

“Wait, Parkinson,” Blaise drawled. “That’s a different game entirely.” Some of the older Slytherins played Seven Minutes in Heaven from time to time, but none of us had ever been invited.

“Well, if Draco’s too scared...” Pansy trailed off rudely. “Or maybe just too disgusted?”

Fuck that. Oh, FUCK THAT. How dare Pansy do that to Millie. “Come on, Millie,” I said encouragingly, holding out my hand to her. Not that I could do much to help her up, she outweighed me by a good stone. But still, a Malfoy must always use his manners.

Millie gripped my hand, and allowed me to pull her into the closet. The door banged shut, mercifully cutting off Pansy’s giggles. Salazar, it was dark in there.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Millie mumbled, her tone thick with mortification. “We don’t even have to talk.”

Yeah, right. As if I’d do that to Millie. “We don’t have to, but we could,” I said, taking a shuffling step in her direction. My eyes had started adjusting to the lack of light, and I could make out Millie’s frame, standing hunched over, just a few paces away. “I mean, if you want.”

“Oh,” she murmured. That little sound, that little ‘oh’ of long-suffered insecurity, nearly broke my heart. Did she really think herself so unworthy of attention? Any second thoughts or doubts I had disappeared immediately.

I stepped forward again, until my body was just a hair’s width away from hers. “Let me know if you want to stop,” I whispered, as I inched my mouth close to hers. Our lips grazed with just the slightest touch, and a shock zinged through my body. I was not expecting that! I brought one hand up to her face, and cupped her cheek, leaning in again and pressing our lips together with more pressure.

“I’ve never...done this before,” she whispered into my lips.

“Me either,” I admitted. But it felt so good, I wondered why I hadn’t. Our mouths were both slightly open now, from talking, and I tentatively traced my tongue around her lips. She moaned a little, and opened her mouth wider. Suddenly we were devouring each other. Our tongues were tangled around each other, our hands were running up and down each other’s bodies. Millie was making the sweetest little moans. It was every teenage boy’s dream.

I wrapped my arms around Millie’s waist, pulling her close, so our bodies were flush together. She reached around and grabbed my arse, squeezing the cheeks and pulling my groin tight against hers. Merlin, my dick was hard and ready to go. And that’s when I noticed something, pressed firm into my hipbone. Millie’s erection.

She realized it the same time I did, and let go of my arse, taking a large step back. I was still clutching onto her waist, so she ended up dragging me with her. “Fuck. FUCK. Sorry, Draco.” She tried to pull away again, but despite her superior size and strength, I wouldn’t let her.

“No, it’s ok,” I said. She snorted. Probably thought I was placating her. But, oddly, I wasn’t. “It’s more than ok. It’s...” and I shut up and let my body do the talking. I reached out and palmed Millie’s cock, over the top of her robes.

“Uunrgh,” she groaned, straight into my ear.

A loud banging on the door caused me to jump. “Half way point!” Pansy trilled. “Hope you are having fun in there.”

“More than you could imagine,” I said seductively into Millie’s ear, causing her to giggle.

Now, I don’t want to brag, but I was pretty good at rubbing one out back at Hogwarts. You had to be, in a dormitory surrounded by four other boys. And I was sure that I could get Millie off in the time we had remaining, and maybe myself, too.

“May I?” I asked, as I undid Millie’s robes and pushed them off her shoulders, onto the floor. She nodded. I quickly divested myself of my school robes as well. Millie was wearing a Slytherin skirt and a short sleeved button down. I ran my hand up the inside of her thigh, until I met the bulge in her knickers. “Sorry, we’ve got no time for finesse,” I explained, as I began palming her cock again. Once the head started leaking, leaving a wet spot in her knickers, I pulled her cock out and started to stroke, firm and quick, hoping she would enjoy the repertoire I used to wank.

Millie’s breaths were coming in short puffs, and she gripped my shoulders firmly, digging her nails into the skin. “Ooooh, Draco,” she all but growled. My cock twitched in my pants, feeling ready to burst. I dropped my hand from around Millie’s waist and brought it to my own straining cock, rubbing it through my trousers.

With both hands occupied, I found it hard to maintain a rhythm, but being teenagers, we were both getting there pretty quickly. Millie surged forward and caught my lips in a filthy kiss, biting hard on my bottom lip. “Draco, I’m...oh shit, Draco...”. My hand was abruptly drenched with warm, wet come and Millie slumped forward, dropping her head on my shoulder. I rubbed my prick more frantically, and felt my balls draw up. Merlin, why was being covered in come so damn hot? I flooded my pants like the teenager I was, palming my dick until it started to feel too sensitive.

“Circe,” Millie said, adjusting her clothes and grabbing her robe from the floor. She gave me a cheeky look as she said, “blond, dainty boys aren’t usually my type, but that was...Circe, Draco, that was...”

“Yeah, it was,” I agreed, shooting her a sly smile. “But just who are you calling dainty? I’m a Quidditch player, you know. Lots of lean muscle on this body.” Millie rolled her eyes and punched my shoulder, sending me staggering back a step. Ok, maybe compared to her, I was dainty. But she smiled at me goofily, and I could tell that this wouldn’t hurt our friendship. “So, who is your type, dearest Millicent?”

She cocked her head to the side and bit her bottom lip. “Oh, I don’t know. Someone like Krum, I suppose,” she admitted with an embarrassed chuckle.

“Why does everyone in this sodding school have a crush on Viktor Krum?” I wondered petulantly.

“Worried about your chances with him, Draco?” Millie asked in a teasing voice.

“Perhaps,” I said, flashing her my best, winning smile. We both started cackling in a manner reminiscent of Peeves the poltergeist.

“Time’s up!” Pansy screeched from the other side of the door. She yanked the handle with force, but thankfully, it could only be opened by the occupants on the inside. Millie and I took another few moments to straighten ourselves up, and then opened the door to join our friends. There was a lot of cat-calling and hollering, and the girls went back to their own dorm pretty quickly, large smiles on their faces as they whispered furtively with Millie. All except Pansy, who looked like she had swallowed a lemon drenched in poison.

Two weeks later, I took Daphne into the same closet, and slipped my fingers up her skirt. Salazar, being with Daphne was a totally different experience. Everything was slick and wet and unfamiliar. I had no idea what I was doing, but thankfully, Daphne took charge. She talked me through where to put my fingers; how to rub her clitoris and push up inside of her. It was all so new and overwhelming, I came in my pants untouched while Daphne’s body clamped down on my fingers, as she convulsed through her own orgasm.

At the time, I thought I was just an incredibly horny teenager. Everything and everyone seemed to make me hard. Male, female, it didn’t matter. Starting in that fourth year, I wanted to shag the entire population of the castle.

As I got older, I began to suspect that something was very wrong with me. That I was diseased in the worst way. Because blokes weren’t supposed to be attracted to other blokes, were they? They weren’t supposed to fantasize about firm, muscled chests and strong, sturdy thighs. They weren’t supposed to get hard at the thought of another cock, jutting proudly from a thatch of curly hair, dripping a little and glistening at the tip, begging to be fisted or sucked or fucked.

It wasn’t until I was out of Hogwarts, and spending more time with Millie, that I learned about the different terminology Muggles used to classify...well, everything, really. Gender, sexuality, sexual orientation. Muggles are weird. They love their labels. But it was helping Millie. She was using a combination of Muggle and Magical healing to transition. And she was radiant in her happiness. I suppose it was inevitable, that Greg would fall so hard.

In the end, the Muggle label helped me, too. I wasn’t sick, or a perverted, sexual deviant. I was Pansexual. Millie said it meant I was attracted to people, regardless of gender. Quite the accomplishment, for someone who had such a stuffy, rigid upbringing. Millie and I had quite the giggle, over a few glasses of wine, about how Lucius would have reacted. Imagine, I toed the family line all those years, parroting my Father’s vile Pureblood bigotry, acting as the perfect Malfoy heir, when in reality, I was rebelling, just by existing. I would have been disowned faster than Trelawney downed a bottle of sherry, had Father ever found out I touched a cock not attached to my own body.

After my sexual awakening with Millie and Daphne, I bet you are wondering how I ended up taking Pansy to the Yule Ball that year. Or maybe, given all the dirt I’ve relayed about Pansy, you’ve figured it out, and are upset that I questioned your intelligence, in which case, I apologize. Obviously, Pansy blackmailed me. She used the knowledge of what Millie and I got up to in that closet, gleaned from the whispers of the other fourth year girls, and threatened to spread it all over the castle. And so, to keep Millie’s reputation (and my own, to be honest) clean, I gave in. At the time, I gained some solace from how incredibly miserable Potter and Weasley also seemed with their Yule Ball dates.

And yet, by sixth year, I found myself in a relationship of sorts with Pansy. To be quite shallow, she gave me something I needed; unquestioning devotion. And sex. Lots and lots of sex. But mostly, in sixth year, it was that unwavering loyalty I found within Pansy Parkinson that I so sorely needed. She didn’t question my motives, or what I was up too. She knew I had a job to do for the Dark Lord, and performing it could bring me (and her, by default) glory. She was just the ruthless, diabolical bitch I needed to push me forward, urging me to never give up when a plan went awry.

I listened to her, and took her advice, above anyone else. Even my mentor, Severus Snape. Because he wasn’t saying what I thought I wanted or needed to hear. Fuck, I was a fool of the worst kind. I pushed away so many people that year. All I could focus on was keeping my family safe, and anyone who showed the slightest reluctance in my heinous methods was deemed an enemy and cast aside.

I tried my best to repair my fractured relationships in seventh year. It took me until the age of seventeen to realize how important Greg and Vince were in my life. For Vince, it was too late. I had treated him like a mindless minion one too many times, and he was eager to turn, to show the world he was better than me and my bumblings. I’ll never blame him for what happened, in the end. It was my fault. I failed him, as a Housemate and as a friend.

I am beyond lucky to have held onto Gregory’s friendship, despite my abysmal treatment of the boy in Hogwarts. And I am proud to count Millie and Daphne as close confidants, as well as Blaise, Nott, and Flint as fond acquaintances.

Now I’ve agreed to fraternize with Weasley, in public, in the company of two of my dearest friends. Because, apparently, “we can’t live in a bubble, Malfoy. We should hang out in a group, get chummy with each other’s mates.” Sodding Gryffindor thorn in my side.

I do wish that it was just me, Greg, and Weasley on this outing. And not because I am ashamed of Millie in any way. It’s just...I’m scared.

My deepest fear isn’t even that Weasley will make some thoughtless remark, embarrassing us all. No, my deepest fear is that Pansy will show up, and ruin the whole evening by asking Millie if she still has a cock.

~~~***~~~

Greg is a simple man, with simple tastes. Give him the typical fare that every patriotic Englishman craves, and he is happy. Roast and yorkshire, steak and kidney pie, fish and chips; dishes that rarely graced the refined Malfoy table. But Greg has discovered a little diner, run by a wizard and his Muggle wife, that uses a combination of culinary magic along with tried and true recipes handed down over generations to create the most savoury homemade entrees since Hogwarts.

Weasley seems to be enjoying the restaurant too, as he is stuffing his face at a speed I can barely register. He keeps closing his eyes and making appreciative little moans and groans, as if he’s never experienced anything quite so delicious. I’ve completely forgotten my own meal, which is growing cold on my plate, as I stare unabashedly at Weasley.

A pointed “huhurgh” throat clearing from Millie pulls me out of my daze. She is smiling at me affectionately. So far, the evening has exceeded my meagre expectations. Weasley and Greg talked a little about the Hogwarts restoration. Millie and Greg have just started discussing work, to which Weasley gives high praise. “Starting a company from scratch is tough. So many fail. The fact that you continue to grow and expand shows how honest and diligent you both are.”

“And Draco,” Greg says fondly, throwing a smile my way. “Couldn’t have done it without Draco.”

I want to drop my head in my hands, but fear it would upset Greg too much. Damn it, I should not have let him have that third pint, but I thought Millie was monitoring the situation.

Ron is looking at me thoughtfully. “Draco’s a silent partner in Greg’s Construction?” he asks, and swings his face back to Greg.

Poor Greg, his expression is a fixed mask of horror. “I wasn’t supposed to tell anybody. Sorry, Draco,” he whispers, dropping his eyes to his plate.

Before I can respond, Weasley says, “no need to worry, your secret is safe with me.” Greg glances at him hopefully, and gives him a wary smile. “You trust me, right?”

The last question is aimed at me, and I take a moment to mull it over. Do I trust this Gryffindor, whose every move is followed and reported by the press, to keep our secret? Do I trust my arch nemesis from school, the bane of my existence, who revelled in my downfalls, to keep this private? “Of course,” I answer airily. I almost mean it. I want to mean it. “No harm done, Greg.”

Greg lets out a relieved gust of air, and leans back in his chair, relaxing once again. Millie, the sly girl, looks back and forth between Weasley and me before asking, “so, are you two dating?”

What the fuck, Millie? I thought we were friends. “Uh, it’s kind of a long story,” I stutter. Weasley just keeps eating, looking amused. “It all started with Pansy, and a bet, and...well, here we all are.”

“Uh huh,” Millie says, scrutinizing me closely. She can see right through me. Millie’s been the unofficial Slytherin House den mother since first year. More than once, as a lonely, homesick young boy, I found myself cuddled into Millie’s side in the Slytherin common room, her comforting weight helping me regain my composure. In later years, whenever I came across a young Slytherin in need of tenderness, I always sent them Millie’s way. She was a natural, and it kept the poor little blighters from going to our Head of House with their woes. Can you imagine Snape hugging little homesick first years?

Just then, my deepest fear shows up. How in Salazar’s name did she find us? “Hello, boys,” she croons, sweeping her eyes over the table. “How sweet, is this a double date?”

Greg has his eyes narrowed, and is glaring at Pansy. As he is usually quite scared of her, it is safe to say he is well on his way to inebriation. “Say hello to Millie, too, Pansy,” he says loudly.

“I thought I had,” she murmurs, before turning to the other woman and saying, “hello, Millicent, dear.”

“Good evening, Pansy,” Millie replies, all cold charm and dignity.

Pansy looks thrown for a second, but carries on bravely. “Quite the sausage party you are having here.”

I close my eyes and groan. Pansy must be a little tipsy herself, to be using such crude innuendo in a public place. I open my eyes and focus on her. She does look decidedly less polished than usual. Her shoes are scuffed, and her lipstick is smeared in the corner of her mouth.

“None of us are even eating sausages, Pansy,” Greg says, the confusion evident in his voice.

Pansy laughs, and it is harsh and ugly. “Oh, Greg, you poor, stupid sod. Are you really so desperate that you would hook up with a ma-“

Pansy’s bitter words are cut short when she crumples to a heap on the floor. “How do you put up with that one?” Weasley asks, pointing at Pansy’s prone form with his wand.

The three of us are speechless. Thankfully, the owner chooses that time to come forward and apologize profusely for the intrusion. Weasley shows him his Auror credentials, and assures the man that Pansy will wake up in precisely an hour. They prop her in a chair in the corner of the room, and cover her with a checkered tablecloth. Millie lets out a little snort.

“So, what was her problem?” Weasley asks, making eye contact with us each in turn.

I open my mouth in an attempt to cobble together an explanation, but Millie beats me to it. “She just wanted to make sure everybody knows I’m a bloke,” she says tiredly.

“But you aren’t,” Weasley says in a bewildered tone.

“No, I’m not,” Millie agrees. She takes a deep breath, and seems to come to a decision. “But I was born with a penis and testicles. A cock and bollocks. Whatever terms you want to use. My parents thought I was a boy, until I was old enough to tell them otherwise. You see, I’ve always known I was a girl, regardless of what was between my legs.” She looks at me, and I grasp her hand. Greg follows suit on her other side. “Pansy has never accepted that.”

Weasley is staring at Millie, and I can’t read his expression. My heart is in my throat. If he’s mean to Millie, I won’t be able to see him anymore. I just won’t. I’m holding my breath, just waiting for his next move.

“I didn’t even know that could happen,” he says wonderingly. His expression changes into one of sympathy. Not pity, thankfully. Millie wouldn’t have been able to stand that. “It must have been difficult for you, at Hogwarts.”

“Actually, it wasn’t,” Millie says, and smiles warmly at Weasley. My heart unclenches. “The Slytherins were great about it. They accepted me for who I am. Well, except Pansy, obviously,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

“Draco told me that Slytherins were a family.” Weasley give Millie a dazzling smile. “I’ve always been proud to be a Gryffindor. But I reckon I misjudged you Slytherins.”

“Draco,” Greg says, in the exaggerated whisper he always uses when he’s drunk. He pulls on my sleeve. “Hey, Draco. I like him.”

I look at Weasley fondly. “Yeah, me too,” I say, staring into those big, blue eyes. “I think we’ll keep him.”

“Yay!” Greg says, clapping his hands together like a little kid. Millie smiles at him indulgently. “Can we see him again soon?”

Weasley is beaming. His smile is so wide, I can practically see his tonsils. “Next Cannons home game, I’m taking you all.”

“It’s a date,” Greg hiccups.

And as our eyes meet across the table again, I can’t help but feeling that something has changed tonight. There has been a shift in the foundation of our relationship. “It’s a date,” Weasley murmurs, and I lose myself in the sea of his eyes.

~~~***~~~

Come the weekend, I am as jumpy as a kneazle on a hot tin roof. It’s the prospect of getting this tattoo, and seeing Weasley again. Too many conflicting emotions are pulling at me, turning me into an uncouth mess. So I do what I must, given the situation; I erect an icy wall, blocking my swirling feelings behind it.

It seems to be working well. Poppy is working away, covering my Dark Mark with her amazing design, and I feel...nothing. No terror, or confusion, or déjà vu. I’m numb.

Weasley’s feather design is much smaller and less complicated, and he is done before me. Poppy decides to give me a break, leaving Weasley and I alone in the shop while she goes to grab a bite. I’ve refused all food. I don’t trust my stomach to keep it down right now, even with my wall.

Weasley is uncharacteristically quiet. He’s watching me with half-hooded eyes. It’s creeping me out. “What?” I spit, when I can stand it no longer.

Weasley shakes his head a little. “Just coming to a realization,” he says, and leans back in his chair, resting his head on his threaded hands. I wait, but he doesn’t continue. Just contemplates me silently.

“Quit your mouth breathing and awkward staring, Weasley,” I say with a sneer. “You are getting on my nerves.”

Weasley lets out a barking laugh. “Ok, Malfoy. You asked for it.” Suddenly I’m anxious, despite my wall of ice. This is it. This is the moment where Weasley realizes that I’m not worth the trouble, and goes merrily back to his band of Gryffindorks. “You’re nervous, aren’t you?”

“I...what?” I ask in a perplexed tone.

“You’re not just nervous, it’s more than that. It’s hard to tell, behind that icy exterior of priggishness you are projecting, but I think you are scared. Terrified, even. Nervous and worried and terrified. Am I right?”

I purse my lips and stare at a spot above his head. My heart is beating like a bird in my chest. How is it that Weasley, of all people, has figured me out?

“You were like this back in school, too,” Weasley ponders. “Right before our Quidditch matches, you were always such an arrogant prat. Even worse than normal, I mean.” He sends me a small smile to take the sting out of his words, but I am unable to respond. I sit there, frozen in place, focusing on the same spot on the wall. “It wasn’t just a ploy to get under our skin, was it? You were...what? Acting like a git because you were scared?”

“You’d‘ve been scared, too, if there were consequences at home when you didn’t win,” I practically yell, finally looking him in the eyes. His expression is gobsmacked. “You have no idea, how angry Father was when I lost a match to Potter. I grew up on a broom, and that scrawny little git, raised by muggles, always managed to show me up.” I’ve never told anyone this before. I should be ashamed, but I just feel free. Like a giant weight has been lifted off my chest. Or, more precisely, a giant wall of ice has melted in my heart. “You lot thought I had it so easy, being a rich, only child. It wasn’t all unicorns and sugar quills, Weasley.”

“I didn’t know,” Weasley says gravely.

“I didn’t want you to,” I answer. “Obviously.”

“You would rather us think you were a complete and utter prat.”

“Yes, exactly,” I say pompously, but with a half grin. It is all out in the open now, so I go a step further in my confession. “Father wasn’t very amused by my academic standings, either.” That’s putting it mildly.

“But...” Weasley sputters, seemingly at a loss for words. “But, you said you were second in our year.”

It fills me with pride that Weasley remembers a remark I made months ago, in passing. “Yeah, second. Behind a Muggleborn. A female Muggleborn, at that. Not nearly good enough in Lucius Malfoy’s books. How awful for him to have an heir that couldn’t manage to come first in anything.”

“Sorry, I know you are baring your soul here, but I’m still stuck on you being second in our year.” He shakes his head in wonder. “A Gryffindor and a Slytherin, first and second! Those snotty Ravenclaws must have been so bloody furious.”

My heart feels light, for the first time that day, and I give a little chuckle. “Michael Corner was insufferable.”

“As usual,” Weasley says with a grin of his own.

When Poppy returns, Weasley and I are chatting amicably. She seems relieved, and gets straight back to work. Time passes much faster now, as Weasley sits by my side, relaying funny antidotes from our school days. Merlin, I would give anything for the memory of Granger turning into Millie’s cat. Maybe I can hoodwink Weasley, and then get my hands on a pensive somehow...

“All finished,” Poppy proclaims proudly.

I look at the design adorning my arm, which I have avoided this whole time. The Dark Mark is completely hidden by the new tattoo. There is not a trace of it left. I can almost hear the door of my old life slam shut, locking in my bad decisions and boyhood mistakes and the sins of my family. It is time for a fresh start.

“It’s perfect,” I say, looking sincerely at Poppy. I find my eyes slipping away from her gaze, over to Weasley’s, and I repeat in a whisper, “perfect”.

~~~***~~~

The date to the Cannons game turns out not to be much of a date at all. At least, not for me. It falls on a day I have agreed to have tea with Mother. As I made these arrangements almost a month ago, there is no way to politely back out of it now. Whatever has happened, she is still my Mother, and I do love her.

I hear so much about the match from Millie and Greg at work, it’s almost like I was there anyway. “Ron was wonderful, Draco,” Millie says. Oh, it’s Ron now, is it? “Once he realized Greg was having a hard time keeping up with the plays, he became our own personal commentator. We had a spectacular time.”

“I’m glad,” I say, and pat her hand. Millie and Greg deserve this happiness.

“Potter was there,” she says, and I can feel her eyes boring into my back. “Showed up by himself. Ron was surprised to see him, but it all worked out. He was much less of a prat than I remember.”

“Huh,” I say, without turning to meet her gaze. I know she’d read me like a very open book. And I’m...well, I’m jealous, to be honest. And very much wishing I had gone to the game myself.

“Yeah,” Millie says softly. “He was pretty stilted at first. Didn’t know what to say, I think. But eventually he realized Greg and I are just people.” I turn to grin at her, and she rolls her eyes. “Not big, bad Slytherins plotting to take over the world.” She’s quiet for a moment, with a reflective look on her face. “He asked after you. Quite courteously, if you must know.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I remain quiet. I’m not sure I like Potter thinking of me at all, let alone inquiring about me.

“Ron told him you were fine, just busy with other plans. But, Draco, he did say he hoped you would join them all on a group outing very soon.” Millie watches my expression closely. “Potter looked a little startled, but agreed that would be ‘nice’. Gryffindors!” She shrugs her shoulders. “I hope you are up for it, Draco. It seemed important to Ron.”

Son of Salazar! No, I am most definitely NOT up for making awkward small talk and pleasantries with a load of Saviour wannabes and hangers-on. Potter and Granger will both be there, no doubt. And I still don’t know what happened between the Golden Trio. Why aren’t Ron and Granger still dating? And, more importantly, what the fuck went down with Ron and Potter? Ron said he loved him, past tense. Was that still the case?

“If it means that much to Ron, of course I’ll go,” I say, with more resolve than I feel.

“Do be careful, dear,” Millie says worriedly, and I throw myself into the comforting embrace of her sturdy arms. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

That makes two of us. But I fear it might be inevitable.

~~~***~~~

Everything I told Weasley about Slytherin House is true. Still, he is right about me, as well. I did treat Greg and Vince like henchmen. I did walk around like I was better than everyone. It wasn’t an act, at the time. It was a deep-seated belief. Thanks ever so much, Mother and Father, for instilling me with a sense of extreme arrogance and ensuring I never had any real friends.

That’s why I’m willing to throw myself into the Lion’s Den, so to speak. It turns out, I like having mates. I enjoy the unspoken trust between Greg and I. It is gratifying, to know that someone, not a blood relative, but someone who chose you, would be willing to stick by you, through thick and thin. And Greg has been there, through all my meagre, thin days, when I had nothing to offer but my companionship. Surprisingly, that was enough for him, all along. And I think it’s enough for me, too, regardless of what my Father would say.

So when I told Millie that I will brave the Gryffindors because it’s important to Ron, that’s not entirely true. I mean, it is, in a sense. I want to keep Weasley happy. But it’s not as pure as it sounds.

Ron has somehow wormed his way into my affections, like the sneaky little Weasel that he is. I’ve developed an attachment to the ginger git. One I’m not ready to give up easily.

I take advantage of my much-overlooked floo, and request it return the the last call. My only caller. I’m not sure if it will work. Maybe Weasley’s floo will be warded. He is an Auror, and a war hero, after all.

I am pleasantly surprised when Weasley does, in fact, answer my floo call, and promptly invites me to step through. As I exit his floo, gently dusting my robes of any stray ash, I take in Weasley’s residence. I’m standing in a modern flat, startlingly clean and free from clutter. I don’t know why I assumed Weasley was the type to leave stray socks draped over the furniture.

“Not what you were expecting?” Weasley asks knowingly, after watching me gaze around his space.

I shrug my shoulders and say, “just imagined you to be a slob.”

Weasley’s face breaks into a broad grin. “You imagine me?” he asks, and I feel my cheeks flush. He winks, and continues, “you should see my bedroom.”

Was that...Merlin’s hat, is Weasley propositioning me? My eyes grow wide as I stare at him, unable to look away. Then it’s Weasley’s turn to grow pink in embarrassment. “I just meant...er...my room...it’s pretty messy,” he explains, rubbing his hands through his hair. “Godric,” he mutters under his breath.

A flustered Weasley makes me nervous. A flustered Weasley cursing quietly to himself is even more unsettling. I’ve gotten used to his calm, steadying presence. I find myself talking, just to fill the silence. “Yes, well...duly noted,” I say importantly, as if he has just relayed a vital piece of intel.

He sighs and offers me a grateful smile. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Just tea, if it’s not to much bother.” I trail after him as he heads to the kitchen. As he prepares my requested beverage, I lean back on his counter and cross my ankles in front of me.

The kitchen is neat and homey, with lots of wood and light coloured walls. Such a contrast to the dark, dank surroundings of the Manor kitchen. I can almost picture Weasley, surrounding by a group of laughing friends, sharing a meal at the solid oak table. It’s a great space for cozy entertaining.

Weasley leads me back into the front room, where we sit on the sofa, snuggling in to opposite ends. He props his feet up on the worn table in front of him and reclines back, seeming totally at ease. I don’t want to look like a stuck up prat, so I bring my legs up and tuck them under me. Weasley glances at my feet, and smiles. Merlin, how embarrassing. I’ve got a ridiculous pair of ankle socks on, picked out for me by my toddler cousin, Teddy Lupin. Ferrets. Who knew you could get fucking ferrets on ankle socks? Teddy loves ferrets. He keeps a pure white one as a pet. Little does he know a part of my soul dies every time I am forced to touch the damned thing. I’ve heard my Aunt proclaim that Teddy will be in Hufflepuff like his mother, or Gryffindor like his father and godfather, but I wouldn’t count out Slytherin. The little blighter is a smidge too cunning for a lad of not-quite three.

Weasley’s voice pulls me out of my musings. “Was there a reason for the house call?” he wonders. Bloody hell, he’s still looking at my feet.

It’s now or never. “I was hoping I’d still be welcome at that Muggle moving picture night thingy. With you and your friends? I’d like to come.”

“Really?” he asks, raising his eyebrows skyward. “Because last time I mentioned it, you screamed ‘fuck no’ like a raving lunatic.”

“Well, I’ve had some time to think about it, and it sounds...fun.” And I don’t want to lose you.

“Liar,” he says, with a huge smile on his face. “But I really don’t care why you are coming. I’m just glad you are.”

Making Weasley happy is intoxicating. His smile is so wide, his startlingly blue eyes are crinkling a bit. I don’t think anyone has been this ecstatic in my presence since...well, ever.

“Before I do this. Meet all your friends, be infected with Gryffindor germs-“ Weasley rolls his eyes. “-I don’t want to go into battle without knowing all the inside information. Please, can you tell me what happened between you and the lesser two thirds of the Golden Trio?”

“You really are too much, Malfoy,” Weasley says, shaking his head indulgently. “‘Going into battle?’ It won’t be that bad.”

Yeah, sure. Gryffindors are notorious for their hatred of Slytherins, and I’m the biggest and baddest of the lot, at least in this group’s eyes.

“But yeah, fine. It seems like a big deal to you, so I’ll fill you in.” Weasley takes a deep breath, and his eyes go slightly glassy as he stares out into the fire. “I told you about the Veritaserum, for the Auror tests. Well, all three questionings didn’t take place in my first year, upon admittance. Before graduating into second year, and being considered a Junior Auror, I had to take the third test. It was right after summer holidays - the first year trainees got two weeks off, at the end of August, and we started back on September first, same as Hogwarts.”

Weasley reaches out and grips my ankle, winding his fingers around the patch of bare skin visible above my embarrassing sock. I don’t think he even knows he has done it. “The Aurors - they need to know who is important to you. Family, friends, lovers. Your loved ones can be used against you, as pawns by Dark Wizards.” Two years ago, Easter at Malfoy Manor. Weasley is screaming, SCREAMING at the top of his lungs, begging Aunt Bellatrix to leave Granger alone. To take him instead. I shiver at the memory. “I’d already given a list of everyone important to me. I suppose it was just standard follow up. The interviewer asked ‘who do you love most in the world?’ and instead of answering Hermione, or even Mum, I...”

“You said Harry,” I whisper, and he nods, still gazing intently into the fire. The hand on my foot moves, until his thumb is over my inner ankle bone, and he starts rubbing small circles there. It is surprisingly intimate.

“I said Harry,” he agrees. “I had just spent my two weeks off with Hermione. There was definitely something...lacking. Fire, passion, I don’t know. I loved her. Do love her. I just wasn’t in love with her.”

After a pause, he continues. “The rest of the interview is a haze. All I remember is feeling relieved, that I had finally faced the truth. Of course, when the Veritaserum wore off, that didn’t last. I ended up overwhelmed by despair. How could I be so unlucky, to lose my best mate and my girlfriend at the same time? Because that was surely what would happen, if they ever found out.”

Weasley’s cool fingers move up my foot slightly. They scratch lightly at the soft blond hair that starts just above my ankle. His touch is gentle, yet grounding. “As luck would have it, Hermione had gone away for a semester. She was doing some courses at a Wizarding college in North America. Hoping to bring back fresh, new ideas for our Ministry.” A small smile graces his lips. “Always on a mission, that one,” he says fondly. My stomach flips over at the obvious affection in his voice. Perhaps I wasn’t as ready to hear this as I thought. I try to draw my foot away, but Weasley tightens his hold, gripping around my ankle with a firm grasp. He turns and looks at me, making eye contact for the first time since we left the kitchen. “Don’t go,” he says plaintively. “You said you wanted to know...”

And now I understand. Weasley needs this. It’s not just about my curiosity. He’s been bottling this inside for a while. He needs to confess, out loud, to someone. To make it real.

When I remain still and silent, he continues. “The Veritaserum interrogations were supposed to be private. I wasn’t prepared for...”. Weasley swallows, and resumes the stroking of my ankle. “Harry came through my floo, unannounced, with fire in his eyes. I thought he was mad at me for some reason. He looked possessed. But he just...he gripped my arms, and pushed me against the wall, and kissed me. Fiercely.” I close my eyes, but the image of Potter and Weasley locked wrapped around each other, snogging passionately, is imprinted in my mind. “I was elated. It seemed like my dreams were coming true.”

I want to retch. Potter gets everything, it just isn’t fair. I don’t care if I sound like a whiny child, I want to stomp my foot and scream at Weasley for the injustice. I want to humiliate the red haired git, for making me care, for sucking me in and ensnaring me with his Gryffindorish chivalry and his easy charm. I want to yank myself away, run home, and never see his freckly, beautiful face again. Mostly, I want to be the one snogging the daylights out of him. Not fucking Potter.

“I won’t go into details,” he says, with a blush staining his cheeks. Thank Merlin for small favours. I don’t think I’d survive a detailed description of what Weasley and Potter got up to. “Eventually I smartened up, and got Harry talking. Asked him what it all meant, and about my sister. Guess what I learned?”

“That he’s always been in love with you, and the two of you are going to be hand-fasted and live happily ever after?” I mumble, looking down. Looking at his hand on my leg, actually. The simple touch feels so good. I can’t believe I am about to lose it.

“What? No!” Weasley’s eyes are wide, and staring at me. “Dra-Malfoy, no. My interview results had been leaked. Harry knew I was in love with him. And being Harry, the self-sacrificing idiot that he is, he decided to make me happy. That I deserved it, after everything I had been through, as the ‘side-kick’ of the Chosen One. The least important member of the Golden Trio.”

“That’s not true,” I say vehemently. I am outraged on his behalf.

“Yeah, thanks Malfoy,” he says sardonically. “Like you didn’t say stuff like that yourself.” Well, ok, but that was back before I knew him properly. I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, I didn’t want to be anyone’s pity fuck, even the great Harry Potter. I lost a lot of respect for him that day. Maybe it was unfair of me - he was just trying to make me happy. And he does love me, I know that. I’m his family. But it hurt, yh know. That he’d let me live a lie. I deserve someone who loves me, totally and completely, for who I am. Harry is my best mate. Why couldn’t he see that?”

There is no way I can answer that. What Potter did was both stupid and noble, in equal measure.

“Harry has his own inner demons, mostly from his abusive, loveless childhood, that he is struggling with. He’s damaged too. And I sort of overlooked that. I guess...I built him up in my head, yah know? To be the perfect person for me. It was self delusion at its finest. He’s my best mate. He always will be. And I’ll always love him. Just...properly, now. Like a brother.” For the first time in my life, I feel a smidge of sympathy for Potter. He sounds...fucked up. And not in the good way. “After that, I had to tell Hermione it was over. We broke up when she finished her semester abroad, right before Christmas. I know she’s confused, and holding out hope that we will get back together. I should be more honest with her, but...I can’t.” He looks at me imploringly, and I notice his hand has gone still on my ankle, and is just squeezing lightly. Like he’s holding his breath. “You are the first person I’ve told.”

My mind is racing. “So, that first night in the pub, when we spoke at the bar...”

“Yeah, that was just about a week after it all happened.” Suddenly, all the tentativeness and sorrow I have witnessed between Weasley, Potter and Granger makes a lot more sense.

My heart plummets as I come to a realization. “If that whole mess with Potter hadn’t happened, we wouldn’t be mates,” I say slowly, as I work it all out in my head. “I would have approached you, and you would have laughed in my face. Probably gone back to your table and mocked me with your friends.”

“Yeah,” he admits. His fingers begin stroking my ankle again, this time with purpose, getting caught in the fine hairs on my legs and travelling up my trousers halfway to the knee. “That’s true. But Malfoy?” He pauses, and waits for me to look at him. “I’m glad it happened the way it did.”

My whole body is alive with pinpricks of electricity. My stomach swoops and flops, like an erratic owl, and I’m worried I might still be sick. But I can’t look away from the sincere, intense gaze of Ronald Weasley’s blue eyes. He pulls on my leg, just a gentle tug, and leans forward slightly. My heart is racing in my chest. Am I reading the situation right? Are we about to kiss?

I lean in, just a fraction closer, and watch as his eyes change from eager and earnest to half-lidded and seductive. Fuck, it’s possible that Weasley may return my regard. It’s hard to think, with his hand still stroking my shin and his warm, musky smell filling my nose.

Just then, his floo roars to life, and we both jump, scattering back to opposite ends on the sofa.

“Ron?” a hesitant voice asks. Potter’s green face is illuminated by the flames.

“Hey Harry,” Weasley replies, with remarkable restraint. “Draco just stopped by for tea.”

Even I can tell how awkward Potter feels. “Oh. Yeah, er...hey, Malfoy,” he says.

If I was a better man, I’d give him props for civility. He’s obviously trying to be polite for Ron’s sake. But his timing is just so unbelievably poor, it all I can do not to jump to the floo and strangle him with my bare hands. “Hello Potter,” I say primly, and see Weasley shake his head out of the corner of my eye.

“Draco’s decided to come with us to the theatre,” Weasley says.

“That’s actually why I was calling. Friday after work is best for everyone, so I hope that suits you both?” Potter’s voice is filled with forced joviality, but it’s a start. At least he’s not screaming at me, or threatening me at wand point.

“Sounds good,” Weasley agrees quickly.

“Ok. Yeah, good. So, I’ll see you - er - see you both on Friday.” The flames die down, and turn back to a brilliant orange.

We sit silently for a few moments, on our opposite ends of the sofa. “I’ve intruded long enough. Thank you for the hospitality, Weasley. Until Friday.”

He chuckles at me. “I can always count on you to fall back on your perfect, Pureblood manners when you are flustered, Malfoy,” he says fondly. I stiffen, and he hastens on. “No, don’t be upset. I...it’s cute.”

Oh. OH! Well, then. “I look forward to our upcoming meeting on Friday. Have a pleasant evening, Weasley,” I say, and make my way towards to floo.

“Wait! Hey, Malfoy, just wait a second, yeah?” I turn around, and see he has sprung from his spot, and is standing in front of the sofa, arms slightly outstretched as if to stop me from leaving. “It’s just...uh...weird. This name thing, I mean.” He’s not making much sense. There’s a possibility he is just making this up on the spot, to delay my departure. Warmth and hope flood through my body. “I still call you Malfoy. You still call me Weasley. But...I call all my friends by their given names. Maybe we should...?”

“But we are not just friends, are we, Weasley?” I say, before I can stop myself. How very Gryffindor of me - speaking before thinking. But I need the reassurance, in the wake of Weasley’s earlier confession. His feelings towards Potter still leave me feeling insecure, loathe as I am to admit it.

“No,” he says slowly. “We are not just friends.” The room has grown heavy with his admittance. Breathing seems laboured and painful. But then, he smiles, a truly beautiful, warm smile, and says, “so what should I call you? Ferret?”

I smile back, half smirk and half grin. “And I’ll call you Weasel.” I grab a pinch of floo powder. “Ferrets and Weasels are in the same family, did you know? They have more in common than you can imagine.” And with that, I throw the powder into the floo, and call out my address. The last thing I see is Weasley’s shocked face, his lips still upturned in a heart stopping smile.

~~~***~~~

The picture story thing turns out not to be a total waste of time.

Well, the story itself, quite honestly, was pretty bad. What I saw of it anyway.

Ok, I spent most of the time with my head buried in Weasley’s shoulder, my eyes clenched tightly shut. And I might, on one or two occasions, have gripped his hand rather forcefully when I did open my eyes.

In my defence, it was incredibly terrifying. Some mad Muggle came up with a way to make himself invisible, and went on a deranged killing spree. Even more nerve wracking was the playful ribbing Potter then endured, comparing him to the nutjob.

If Potter can somehow turn invisible, I do not want to know.

So I missed most of the ‘movie’. And ended up enduring many jokes at my expense, mocking my scaredy cat nature. But it was all worth it, in the end.

While I was hiding my face from the show, Weasley - Ron - sneaked his arm around me, and rubbed light, comforting circles on my shoulder. He also kissed the top of my head, more than once, and whispered reassuring platitudes into my ear when I seemed especially distressed. Not a bad evening, all things considered.

Now we are standing outside of the theatre, slightly apart from the rest of the pack, who are making plans for post-show drinks. Ron’s hand is resting on my shoulder, light enough to provide comforting warmth. “You wanna go for drinks?” he asks, nodding his head towards his friends.

“No, thank you. I believe I’ve had enough excitement for one evening.” I smile and raise my eyebrows. “You go on, though.”

“Yeah...er, alright,” he says, seeming unusually muddled. “I just...I don’t want to leave you if...” he rubs the back of his neck and looks at me sheepishly. “Is this a date?”

“If this were a date, I would expect you to ensure I get home safely. If this were a date, there would be the possibility of a good night kiss.”

“Oh, this is definitely a date,” he says quickly, and I throw my head back in laughter.

“Always so eager,” I say teasingly. I’m trying to remain calm on the outside, while on the inside, my heart is pounding out a frantic rhythm in my chest. “Here I am, surrounded by a gaggle of Gryffindorks. No, this is not a date. But...”

He glances at me hopefully. “But...?”

I roll my eyes at him. “Oh, for Salazar’s sake, don’t be so thick, Weasel,” I huff, in mock anger.

“Ok, ok,” he says placatingly, holding his hands up in a surrendering gesture. “Lovely Ferret, would you please go on an official date with me?”

I cross my arms on my chest and squint at him. “What kind of date? Where will you be taking me? I’m not some easy fourth year Hufflepuff, content with a trip to the kitchens and a grope in a hidden alcove.”

“Merlin, I’m aware that you aren’t easy,” he mutters, looking taken-aback for a moment. Then he tilts his head and flashes me a lopsided grin. “That’s a surprise. Guess you’ll have to trust me.”

My heart leaps. I already do trust him, way more than I should, and that’s the whole problem. “If I must,” I reply.

“I love it when you use your snotty manners on me, Ferret.” Suddenly, my hand is grasped by his much larger one, and he brings it to his mouth. He brushes the softest of kisses over the tips of my fingers, leaving me wide eyed and trembling. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 11:00,” he says, as he drops my hand and saunters away. The faint sound of humming reaches my ears.

I bring my hand up to my mouth, resting my fingers gently on my lips.

Wait, did he say 11:00? In the morning? Just what kind of lame-ass date is Weasel taking me on, anyway? “I like your Auror robes,” I shout after him, hoping he will pick up the hint and not show up for the date adorned in a ratty t-shirt and Muggle denims.

He spins around and grins at me, raising a hand and waving his fingers, before he disappears around the corner.

~~~***~~~

A picnic. Weasley is taking me on a picnic. He DOES think I’m a fourth year Hufflepuff.

Although, he has packed a number of my favourite snacks. And the spot he has picked, overlooking a scenic lake, sheltered in the shade of a majestic willow tree, is quite pretty, in a rugged, outdoorsy way.

“It’s part of the Burrow’s land,” he says, when I comment on the view. “My childhood home,” he elaborates, when I look at him, perplexed. “I spent a lot of time here, swimming in the lake and practicing my flying skills. Before Hogwarts.”

When I was young, I had pictured Ron squatting in mud, playing with sticks, clad in hand-me-down rags. Father had made it abundantly clear that the Weasleys were dirt poor, and it was their status as blood traitors that was the cause. Merlin, I was an oblivious snob.

He catches me watching him, and laughs, self-deprecatingly. “It’s not much, but it’s home,” he says, and I feel like he’s said this before, as an explanation and an apology. I reach out and grab his hand, lacing my fingers through his. I’ve never been big on physical displays of affection, but for some reason, Ron brings out my sensitive side.

“I’ve got a surprise planned, after this,” he admits, with just the faintest blush staining his neck.

“Lovely,” I remark. Because it is. All of it. The picnic, the planned surprise, Ron himself. All lovely. Achingly, painfully, distressingly lovely.

“That’s me. Lovely,” he quips. “I hear that all the time.”

“No you don’t,” I say, and push him on the shoulder, hard. He falls back onto the picnic blanket, sprawled on his back and blinking up at me.

“No, I don’t,” he admits, and pulls me down on top of him with lightening quick Auror reflexes. Our noses are almost touching, and I can smell the faint aroma of Butterbeer lingering sweetly on his breath. “But I like it, coming from you, my Ferret.” His hand travels, from the grip he has on my wrist, up my arm, over my shoulder, and onto the nape of my neck, where he wraps his fingers and squeezes lightly. I close my eyes, revelling in the soft, proprietary touch. “Your hair looks pretty today.”

My eyes spring open, and I pull away, so that I am laying next to him on my back. Weasley sure knows how to ruin the moment. “I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating. I. Am NOT. A Hufflepuff. Girl,” I enounce meticulously.

Ron leans over me, and smiles at me awkwardly. “I know. I just...I like the braid. The plait. It looks nice. It suits your face, when your hair is pulled back. You wear it like that a lot.”

“Oh,” I say, at a loss for words. “Well, thanks.” I do wear my hair in a plait most days. Sometimes I think I should just cut it all off, if I’m not going to wear it loose. But, call me vain if you will, I like my long, fine, silvery hair.

“I bet it would look nice down, too, though. And it would feel nice. Soft, and silky, between your fingers. You know, if someone was the run their hands through it?”

Merlin, does that sound nice. “I wear it in a plait because I like my hair long, but I would like to avoid looking like Lucius, if possible,” I admit.

Ron sits up, a frown on his face, and I sit up too, uncomfortable with him towering over me. “You are nothing like your father,” he says, and reaches forward, pulling the elastic from the end of my plait. Then his big, strong hands are in my hair, carding through the strands, scratching lightly at my scalp. A shudder runs through my body, and I lean forward, dropping my forehead onto his shoulder. “I was right, it does feel nice. Amazing, actually. And it looks...you look...” I raise my head and gaze at him, pleadingly. Longingly. I’m sure the vulnerability is plain in my eyes. “Malf-Draco, I-“

A loud splash interrupts him. Salazar’s saggy tits, why does this always happen at the worst possible time? Holy Merlin fuck, is that...did a fucking hippogriff just dive bomb into the Weasley’s lake?

“That’s...er, that’s Buckbeak,” Ron says, by way of explanation. “From Care Of Magical Creatures.”

Oh no. “Is that the same hippogriff that attacked me?” I squeak.

“Well, you were quite rude to him,” Ron mutters.

“Right. Ok, this date is officially over,” I say, somewhat hysterically. Buckbeak is eyeing me beadily. My arm starts throbbing in sympathy.

“Don’t be a drama queen, Ferret,” Ron says affectionately. “Let’s just move onto that surprise yeah?” Before I can answer, he wraps his arms around me and apparates away.

And we reappear, somewhere...vaguely familiar. It takes me a moment to get my bearings, while Ron gapes at me dopily. We are behind a bunch of stores, and the one we are standing by is...”Borgin and Burkes? What are you playing at?”

“Borgin and Burkes, which no longer exists. It was taken over by...”

“The Black Unicorn!” I exclaim delightedly.

“Yup,” Ron agrees, grabbing me by the wrist and hauling me towards the back door. “And since I happen to know the owner, we can sneak in here.”

He looks way too proud of himself. “How did you know I’ve been wanting to come here?”

“You weren’t exactly discreet about it, when we had lunch in Knockturn that time. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a grown man stare so adoringly at a bookstore before.”

“Ha ha. You’ve had your fun. Now let me have mine.”

“That was the plan,” Ron says amicably. “Knock yourself out.”

I wander away, eyes open and bright to the breathtakingly impressive display before me. Every available inch of the store is covered. But it’s not cluttered, or messy in the least. On the contrary. Shelves rise from floor to ceiling, with books stacked up as far as the eye can see. There are ladders and levitating platforms to help customers reach out of the way manuscripts. Shelving units stack like pyramids, housing parchments and scrolls. Sweet merciful Merlin, it’s beautiful. I run my hand idly over a desk, letting my fingers gently touch the sumptuous stock - parchment and vellum and tissue - when I hear a voice behind me. “Interested in ordering some custom stationery, Mr. Malfoy?”

“What? No,” I say to the man at my shoulder. “Well, actually, maybe, in the future. But right now I’m just...”

“Taking everything in?” he suggests with a grin. “I can always tell who the true book lovers are, by their reaction. And you look like a man in love. Call me if you need help. Or ask Ron.”

Speaking of Ron, the shopkeeper looks a little familiar. The red hair is a different colour, and it is curlier than Ron’s, but still...there are similarities, especially around the eyes, and in that cheeky, knowing grin. A Weasley relation, I have no doubt.

I’m just starting to feel comfortable in The Black Unicorn, when the whole, beautiful day gets shattered. Pansy Parkinson, looking uncharacteristically bedraggled, grabs my arm and hisses, “I need to talk to you.”

I had kind of forgotten about Pansy. Hadn’t really thought about her since that night with Ron, Greg, and Millie, to be honest. Oh shit, we left her stunned under a tablecloth that night, no wonder she seems so irate.

“Now’s not really a good time,” I say, in my best, pompous Malfoy voice. “I’m on a date.”

“The date’s over,” she bites out acidly, pushing me further into the shop. She settles us into a darkened corner, and turns to face me. “Your relationship with Weasley is over.”

“No-“ I start, but she cuts me off.

“Here’s how it’s gonna go. You are going to march over to Weasley, and let him know this was all a joke. Everything you did was for a silly, childish dare. You are going to break his heart, and then walk out of here, never to see or speak to him again. Got it?”

My first instinct is to laugh in her face, but I reign it in. On closer inspection of Pansy, she looks...well, quite mad, actually. Her eyes are darting around frantically, and her face is puffy and red. The situation might call for some delicacy.

“Ron knows about the bet.” Pansy scoffs when I call Weasley by his given name. “I told him that first night. If that nullifies our wager, so be it.” I never gave a flying flobberworm about the blasted bet to begin with. I certainly never expected Pansy to come through with Malfoy Manor.

“Oh, sweetie,” she mewls, false sympathy ringing in her voice. “Forget the bet. You were never going to win, anyway. Weasley would have come to his senses sooner or later. An Auror, dating a Death Eater? In what fantasy world did you think that would work?” She pats my arm, and I rip it out of her grip, barely containing a snarl. “Don’t tell me you’ve actually developed feelings for him? Oh, this is just too rich.”

I stand stiffly, waiting for the boom to fall. I made a big mistake, writing off Pansy. And the jubilant, fiendish expression adorning her pug-like face says I’m about to pay for that mistake.

“Draco, darling, we need each other,” she simpers, and clutches at my arm again. “We are Housemates, friends - we’ve know each other since infancy! You wouldn’t really pick a Gryffindor over a Slytherin, would you?”

My silence is answer enough. Her fingers dig into my flesh, the long talon-like nails leaving little divots in the skin of my arm. I’m fearful that she will draw blood, if she keeps squeezing. “I’m hurt,” she pouts. “You once said you loved me.”

I close my eyes on that memory. I did profess my love to Pansy, back in sixth year, when I felt she was my only ally. Me and her, against the world. We were a team. Except we weren’t. She was fucking around behind my back, and her feelings for me were all a faked, dramatic act, for the benefit of rising in the Dark Lord’s esteem.

“I’ll forgive you. All you have to do is break things off with Weasley.”

“Or else...?”

“Or else, I tell the Daily Prophet about your role in Greg’s business.” My eyes pop open, and I stare at her in horror. She wouldn’t. She stares right back, unflinching. Yes, she would. “Oh, you seem surprised that I know. Was it supposed to be a secret, even from me?” she asks in a girly little voice. It’s like poison dripping into my ear. “Wouldn’t it be tragic, to see Greg and the freak, Millie, lose it all? Because of you. Because of the Malfoy name, the stain of your legacy.” Those fingers grip tighter for a second, piercing my flesh, before she lets go and smiles at me prettily. “I wouldn’t want to see anything happen to my fellow Housemates. Us Slytherins need to stick together.

“Come to my flat when you are done. We can discuss our new...arrangement,” she suggests lewdly, as she saunters away and out of sight.

I’m left propped up on a wall, gasping heavily for breath. Blackmail. Pansy is blackmailing me. Blackmailing me with the aim to ruin my life. She’s done it before, to a multitude of unsuspecting sods, and I wrote it off. Because it didn’t affect me personally. Because her dalliances kept her out of my hair. Because maybe those smug Gryffindors deserved it. Well, fuck, was I wrong. And now, I’m paying the price for turning my back all those times.

There is only one clear thought - an image, actually - running through my head. It’s the photo I keep on my desk at work, of me and Greg, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, smiling widely at the camera. Right at the end, before the loop resets, Greg murmurs something, and I begin to laugh. It’s the only picture, ever taken, where you will find me laughing. It’s a picture of friendship, and trust, and love. And I know what I have to do.

I stumble through the bookshop in a daze, until I find my way to Ron, who is thumbing through the latest edition of Seeker Weekly. He looks so calm and serene, leaning against a shelf of magazines, that I want to cry. I want to scream and stomp my feet and hurl a Malfoyesque fit. How can I willingly trade Ron, my Weasel, for that total shrew Pansy Parkinson?

“Weasley,” I bark, and we both flinch a little at the harsh sound. “Look, this is over,” I say, gesturing between the two of us with my hand. “It was fun, stringing you along. Watching a Gryffindor throw aside his friends for a Slytherin. But I’m bored now.” I yawn, and drop my eyes. I can’t look at his open, impassioned face for one more moment. “I can’t keep up the act anymore. This was all for the bet. Pansy is going to get me access to the Manor. I don’t need you anymore.” I turn to walk away, and shoot over my shoulder, “see you around, Weasley. Or maybe not.”

I should have moved much faster. Fuck, I should have sprinted out of The Black Unicorn. Because Ron reaches out, and rather than gripping my hand, he clutches at my hip. The reaction I have to his touch, compared to Pansy’s, is startling. My heart instantly begins to race, and I am hard-pressed to prevent my body from leaning back into his solid, stoic warmth.

“Ferret, don’t do this,” he mumbles into my ear. Merlin, he has moved up right behind me, and snaked his arm around my waist. My back is flush with his chest, just like I was trying to avoid.

I close my eyes again, and take one deep breath, allowing myself a second of pleasure. Of devotion and acceptance. It’s all about to come crashing down.

“I. Am NOT. Your ferret.” His grip on my waist loosens slightly, and I spin around, my worst Malfoy sneer curling my lips. “As if I’d actually want to have anything in common with you. Weasel.” I spit the words violently in his face, and I can see his resolve start to waver. He still doesn’t want to believe what is happening, but I am making him question it. Question us. I think my heart might break.

“Ferr-Draco, I don’t know what’s going on, but this isn’t you. I know it’s not.” He says it desperately, pleadingly, like he can make it true, out of sheer force of will.

“You don’t know me at all. Not the real me. This has all been an act.” My snarl has reached epic proportions, but still, I can feel his doubt. Time to show him what I’m made of. I regret having to stoop so low, but as the Muggles say, desperate times make us all desperate, or something. “Look, if you are so interested in getting some Slytherin cock, send Greg an owl. He and Millie seem to like you, and if you are lucky, you can hook up with them before Millie’s prick is-“

WHAM. Ron punches me in the face, hard, right in the mouth. I’ve bitten my tongue, and I think my lip has split. But I’ve accomplished my goal, because Ron is storming off, flexing his hard and muttering obscenities.

I creep around the shop, and scuttle out the back door, apparating directly to Pansy’s place.

She is waiting for me, sprawled out on her turquoise blue divan, feet crossed demurely at the ankle. “Circe, Draco, you are going to ruin my decor, bleeding everywhere like that.” She grabs her wand and heals my lip. I’m no longer dripping blood, but the pain is still there. Good. I want to feel it. The physical sting of my injury is much preferable to the ache of my splintered heart.

“It’s done,” I say shortly, and drop down by Pansy’s feet.

She kicks me viciously, and I jump back up. “Don’t get comfortable,” she snipes. “Merlin, you are such a loser, Draco. And such a terrible Slytherin. You let me play you like a violin. That’s what you get, for fraternizing with noble Gryffindors.”

“What do you want, Pansy?” I ask tiredly. I just want this whole thing to be over. I’d like to sink into a chair, but I don’t want to appear any weaker than I already do. Also, it seems like a great deal of Pansy’s furniture has been removed.

“Money. A hundred-no, five hundred Galleons should do nicely. Then I’ll conveniently forgot how Greg’s Construction came to be, and your continued role in it all.”

I’ll have to borrow some money from the company, and my charities will take a bit of a hit from lack of donations, but I still can’t help but think I’ve gotten off easy. Just to be safe, I ask, “you didn’t want to, uh...?”

“Be caught dead dating you?” she answers with a laugh. “Merlin, no! As I said, you are a loser, and Pansy Parkinson doesn’t socialize with losers. Now get out of my flat.” She points at the door, already turning her head away from me. Just as I am about to gain my freedom from her oppressive presence, she squawks, “you have a fortnight to deliver. Otherwise, all of the Wizarding World will know your little secret. And Greg’s Construction will crash and burn.”

As soon as I make it home, I find myself chugging at a bottle of Calming Draught, not even bothering to measure out the proper dose. As the Potion hits my bloodstream, I can feel my shock and devastation being replaced by peaceful serenity.

This is not the first time I’ve found myself in an impossible situation. Hell, it’s not even the worst predicament I’ve been in. It’s just...with my family, and the Dark Lord, I never had any real choice. I did what I could to keep us all alive. And when I failed...well, a much braver, nobler Slytherin than me came to the rescue, much to my dismay. Just once, I’d like to be the one in control. The calm, self-assured leader, making the right decisions

That’s not going to happen, this time. Who am I kidding? It will never happen for me, a Malfoy, notorious for making all the wrong decisions at every turn in his life.

There is only one thing to do. I will pay Pansy the money, I will keep quiet about the blackmail to Greg and Millie, and I will never, EVER, speak to Ronald Weasley again.

~~~***~~~

For the next few days, I manage to successfully avoid everyone and everything. I tell Greg and Millie that I am working from home. Then I say that I have fallen ill, and need to take some days off. They both send owls, but I don’t open the letters. I just need some time.

Time for what, you may ask? Certainly not time to sort out my finances. I procured Pansy’s money the very day after her request. It sits, still in the burlap bag straight from Gringotts, on the middle of my kitchen table. Mocking me. Why don’t I just deliver it to her and be done with it?

It’s that time I mentioned. Time I need, to get over Weasel, in all his long-limbed, lanky glory, before I have to give him up, for good. Time to forget the blueness of his eyes, that shift from darkest navy to bright sky blue, and a million colours in between, all dependant on his mood. Time to learn to hate his soothing presence; his composed demeanour and keen understanding and his brilliant, pink flush when his confident, cocksure persona gets cracked. Time to forget the map of freckles on his arms, and stop tracing them in my dreams.

There is not enough time in the world to forget how deeply I’ve fallen for Ron Weasley. The Weasel. MY Weasel.

On the tenth day of my solitude, my floo roars to life, and I know it’s him. He’s the only one audacious enough to break through my wards.

“I’m disappointed in you, Malfoy,” he states quietly, as he comes up behind me in the kitchen. I’m seated at my table, with my back facing him.

Join the long list of people who I’ve disappointed, Weasel, starting with my own parents. “Yeah? My heart is breaking,” I say sardonically, as I turn to face him. And I can’t help it, the scowl rolls right off my face, when confronted with Ron’s searching, doleful gaze.

“Mine too,” he whispers. “Fuck, Malfoy.” Oh, that hurts. He keeps using my last name, like we are still enemies. Like these last few months had never happened. It’s my fault, but still, it stings. “Have you read any of the owls I’ve sent you? Or the ones from Greg and Millicent?” I sit there, ramrod straight, staring at his face. At his lips - his pink, full lips, asking questions that I don’t want to answer. “We know, ok? I know. About Parkinson, and the blackmail, and...all of it. Me, Greg and Mille; we all know.”

“What? How?” I ask, before I can do the smart thing. Which would be to deny it all. Vehemently.

“My brother heard everything she said, in The Black Unicorn.” I must look baffled, because he huffs a sigh, and continues. “Percy owns the place. I asked him to follow you around, stealthily. Your birthday is coming up, and I wanted to get you something special. He overheard the entire conversation. We preserved the memory, in case we need it later to prove the blackmail.”

Terror clutches at my chest. “NO!” I shout, and even professional Auror Weasley jumps. “I’m going to give Pansy what she wants. I won’t let Greg and Millie lose the business because of me.”

“Because of your last name? Because people hate you? Godric, Draco, when is the last time you properly looked at the Prophet?” The way my heart swells when he calls me Draco is entirely too embarrassing. “You are not the pariah you think you are.”

“Yeah, right,” I bite out caustically. Must be nice to be a famous war hero, and a decorated Junior Auror. “I seem to remember a rather scathing headline about you slithering to new lows, by agreeing to one date with me. And of course, all the love I received from your friends. Potter held me at wand-point, for fuck’s sake. He accused me of controlling you through an unforgivable curse. That’s what people think of me, Ron.”

“That’s what people thought of you. Past tense. Because you didn’t show them anything else.” Ron rubs his hands through his hair, and shakes his head. “That’s what I thought of you, until I got to know you.”

“And now its all changed? People love me, and cheering my name in the streets? I don’t think so.”

Ron closes his eyes. He looks tired. Exhausted, actually. “You don’t have to believe me, although I wish you would. I deserve that much, at least.” He open his eyes, and his gaze is sad and defeated. He digs a small parcel out of his pocket and throws it on the table. It expands, and I am left staring at a pile of Daily Prophets. “Read them. And get in touch with Greg and Millie.”

The top paper has a picture of me and Weasley on the front page. It’s taken in the pub, on our first meeting after the dinner date for the bet that started it all. If I recall correctly, that was the evening Pansy poisoned Ron with Veritaserum, and Potter threatened me with bodily harm. Still, the picture relays none of that. It shows Weasley, clutching the table and braying with laughter, while I look on helplessly, my mouth quirking up into a soft smile. In the background, people from tables close to ours turn their heads, and smile at the display of mirth. There is not one look of hatred or disgust being thrown my way. The caption under the photo reads, _Harry Potter’s sidekick, Junior Auror Ronald Weasley, has been notably dour since the end of the war. Most contribute this to the loss of his brother and several close friends. It seems that Weasley has finally found reason to smile again, in the form of exonerated Death Eater, Draco Malfoy. Continue to follow the Daily Prophet for regular updates on this peculiar new relationship_.

Huh. Well, that was surprisingly complimentary, for a vindictive rag like the Prophet. I flip through the remaining papers, and a pattern begins to form. Someone has been following Ron very closely. There are a multitude of photos of us together - out for lunch in Knockturn Alley, at the Cannons match, stumbling drunkenly from a Muggle pub. In each photo, Ron is unquestionably happy, a large, genuine smile on his face. The face I present is more reserved, but it is still impossible to miss the contentment in my expression. Contrast that to the pictures of Ron out with Potter and his friends, where he looks strained and hesitant. Even the Prophet’s hack reporters pick up on the difference.

The last photo portrays Ron and I outside of the theatre on Knockturn Alley, taken just last week. A few of his group of friends can be seen in the background, including Neville Longbottom, who is grinning at us fondly. Ron and I are gazing into each other’s eyes, lost to the world around us. He picks up my hand and kisses the tips of my fingers, and I blush, on an endless loop. The moment in time is caught perfectly. Even more perfect is the concise caption, _Ronald Weasley and Draco Malfoy share a look filled with love_.

When romance novels speak about hearts leaping, I can verify that it is possible. My heart does. Leap. Jump. Twist and turn and do the tango. All because of that caption. And what it means.

I am so fucked

~~~***~~~

“I want to nail that witch to the wall,” I say, thumping down the large stack of Prophets onto the desk in front of me. As a testament to his outstanding Auror skills, Ron barely starts at the noise, even though it is quite obvious I have caught him unawares. It’s long past regular working hours, yet Weasley is diligently perusing a mountain of paperwork in his in-home office. Sodding upstanding Gryffindor type.

I stayed up practically all night, weighing my options, cooking up new schemes. No matter what Ron says, I still think I have a lot to lose, by going against Pansy. She won’t just announce my place in Greg’s Construction. No, she is a vindictive, malicious little shrew. She will try her best to ruin my life.

Here’s what it came down to. Was Weasel worth it?

Easy question, it turns out. So now I’m standing in front of Ron, practically panting with exertion, about to lay it all on the line.

“Fucking finally!” Before I can react, he’s grabbed his wand, and casts a silent spell. A misty form shoots out, morphing into a small dog, which turns to study him, head cocked. “Find Gregory Goyle. Tell him that Draco has come to his senses. Meet us at my place as soon as he can, and bring Millicent.” The Patronus trots off, tongue lolling from its mouth.

Of course Ron can cast a Patronus charm - which is very advanced magic, by the way - wordlessly. Wanker. Powerful, sexy wanker.

“Don’t look at me like that, Draco.”

“Like what?” I bite out crankily. I know he means well, but I didn’t come to him to be rescued. I came to him because...well...because he’s my Weasel. I should have realized he’d go in Auror mode straight away. Merlin.

“Like you’ve been sucking on a lemon. Your pointy little face is all scrunched up. Your lips look like a puckered arsehole.” I begin sputtering like a broken fountain. Did he just... compare me to... “I’m calling in the cavalry.” I must look confused (and hopefully less like an actual asshole), as he continues, “Muggle term. Western movies. I’ll take you sometime.”

“Oh,” I say. Because I wasn’t sure, you see. If Ron was still interested, in continuing to see me. I had hoped. Warmth spreads through my chest, and I am able to breath properly, for the first time since running into Pansy at the Black Unicorn.

Ron’s not even listening. He is focused on the pile of Prophets I launched onto his desk. He runs a finger over the top photo gently - the one with our picture in front of the theatre - then asks, head still down, “you didn’t want to keep this one?”

“I’ve already contacted the Prophet and requested a full colour, enlarged copy.” It’s comical how fast his head snaps up, and he meets my eyes. “I’ve got the perfect frame in my bedroom.”

“Yeah?” he whispers hopefully.

“Yeah,” I confirm. Take a deep breath. “I’m in love with you, Weasel.”

His eyes pop open wide, and he seems frozen for a moment. I’m completely useless on the other side of the desk. My arms and legs feel weighed down, like they are made of lead. I can’t move, can’t even change my facial expression. We are both still as statues, staring at each other.

“Merlin,” Ron whispers. “I wasn’t expecting that. Brave for a Slytherin. Straightforward. Not like you at all, really.” His face lights up in the most beautiful smile, and my body responds. The weight is dissipating. His smile keeps growing, and I’m sure he’s about to say something else.

CRASH. “Ronald Weasley, you invited us over, and your fucking wards won’t let us into your fucking flat.” Millie’s voice rings through Ron’s place, louder than any howler. Ron winces, and rushes to unblock the floo. Millie barges through, dragging Greg behind her, who waves at me. “Hello, Draco. We hear you are being blackmailed by Pansy. Let’s decimate the trollop.”

“Ah, dear Millie. You always did have a way with words.” I smile ruefully. “To bad your timing is worse than Potter and a mad hippogriff.” Seriously, every time Ron and I are on the verge of something serious, there is an interruption. “Thank you both for coming. You are true friends. But I don’t want to drag you into this.”

Millie and Greg exchange a look. I expect Millie to make a well thought out, rehearsed argument, so I am surprised when Greg steps forward, grips my shoulder, and speaks. “I’ve always been a bit of a joke. I know that. I’m kinda dumb, and kinda slow. I’m not the coolest guy. Not anyone’s first pick for a best mate.” His meaty hand squeezes my shoulder, and his lips turn up in an endearing, lopsided smile. “But then you did. After all that awful shit, with the fire and the trials and everything. You wanted to be my friend. And we are friends, right?” I nod my head, trying to hold back the moisture I feel forming at the corner of my eyes. “Yeah, we are,” he says, nodding too. “Best mates. I’d never had that before. I know you didn’t feel that way about me, in school. And it didn’t matter so much, then, ‘cause I didn’t know no better. But Draco, it matters now, so much. You giving me that money, to start the business? That was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. ‘Cause you believed in me, and so I believed in me, too.” He glances back at Millie, and she steps forward and grabs my hand. “There wouldn’t be a Greg’s Construction without you. And if we don’t beat Pansy, and the business fails, then oh well. You are more important to me - to us - than a stupid business, Draco.”

Merciful Merlin on a broom. Who knew Gregory Goyle had such a range of emotion? I am bound and determined not to cry, but then I glance over at Ron, and notice he is hastily wiping his own eyes. Bloody sap.

“Family for life, right Draco?” Millie whispers. It’s something we used to say, back in the Slytherin common room, when the rest of the school seemed hell-bent on hating us all.

“Family for life,” I reply. And for the second time that day, I do the unthinkable. I say the L word. “I love you guys.”

“Love you too, Draco,” Greg says soggily. His eyes appear a tad moist, as well. “Now, like Millie said, let’s decorate this trollop.”

Millie shakes her head and pats her boyfriend’s arm. “Decimate. We are going to decimate her.”

~~~***~~~

Ron has so many ideas. Too many. He’s seen too much, and he’s only been in the Auror ranks for two years. Pansy should be pleased that I have vetoed his more nefarious plots.

I push myself out of my chair in the middle of Ron’s sentence. It might be rude, but I just need some air. There is a migraine brewing above my left eye, and I pinch the bridge of my nose to try and stave it off. “Just going to grab a cup of tea,” I throw over my shoulder, as I dash to Ron’s kitchen. Maybe the caffeine will help settle my burgeoning headache.

Just going through the motions of brewing - boiling the water, steeping the leaves, adding the perfect amount of cream - soothes my tattered nerves. I pad my way back to the group, but stop at the doorway when I hear my name. I don’t mean to eavesdrop... oh, alright, I’m totally eavesdropping. Slytherin, remember?

“...realize about Draco,” Millie says in a hushed voice, “is that he is proud to a fault. He wants to win, but he wants to do it his way. Without help.” Ron murmurs something, but Millie cuts him off. “That’s different. Greg and I are family. You... well, I’m not sure what you are. But I do know that Draco doesn’t want you to fix this for him. I’m sure you could pull some strings at the Ministry, use your big, bad Auror contacts and bail him out of the situation in no time. But that’s not what Draco wants, or needs, to be quite frank.”

More murmuring from Weasley. At least this time I can make him out. “What does he need?” he asks petulantly.

“He needs you to believe in him,” Millie says simply. “No one ever has; not enough, anyways. He needs you to back him, to fight with him. Not for him. He doesn’t need a Saviour. He needs-“

“I get it,” Ron says, sounding abashed. “And I do believe in him. I will always fight with him. But if necessary, I will fight for him, too. Or against him, if he’s being an idiotic wanker. That’s just who I am.” The last statement comes out like a challenge from Ron’s lips.

“Gryffindors,” Millie mutters. I can picture her shaking her head. “You have no subtlety.”

This seems like a good time to make my presence known. I walk back into the room, saying “I know what I’m going to do.” Three sets of eager eyes turn my way. “Weasley, if you aren’t opposed, I’d like to continue on as if this bullshit with Pansy never happened.”

“So...we’ll be dating?” he asks slowly.

A shiver runs through my body. “Yeah.”

“Publicly?”

“Yeah,” I repeat.

“Wicked,” he grins, and I catch a glimpse of the Weasley from Hogwarts, with his uncontrolled emotions and unbridled enthusiasm. He steps up to me, and cups my cheek with a large, freckled hand. I’m not even ashamed to say that I lean into the touch, which is warm and strong and all kinds perfect.

“Wait, does this mean we don’t get to demonstrate Pansy?” Greg confusedly enquirers.

“That’s right,” I agree, pulling my eyes away from Ron’s smiling face with great difficulty. He drops his hand from my cheek, and I mourn the loss for a split second, before his fingers intertwine with mine. “I think my days of wanting to decimate people are behind me, Greg. Honestly, I can’t help feeling a wee bit sorry for Pansy. She has nobody. Just a string of empty affairs, who she ends up fucking over. And I have...well, I’ve got you guys, haven’t I?”

“Circe’s tits, Draco, you’ve turned into a regular old sop,” Millie says, looking at me aghast. “And, for the record, this is a really bad idea. Pansy might be desperate and messy right now, but she is also very cunning, and you-“

“Let’s do what Draco said,” Ron interrupts. Millie side-eyes him a chilling glare, but he remains unaffected. “It’s his decision to make. And we are all prepared to deal with the consequences, whatever they may be. Right?”

Greg and Millie, the two best friends a guy could ask for, nod back at Ron. Both look wary, and I know they don’t agree with this plan. Or lack of plan. But I’m just done fighting and lying and hiding myself. Ron squeezes my fingers, grabbing my attention once more. “So, er...this public dating thing. Do you think it could start right now?”

Millie lets out a delicate snort, and grips Greg’s bicep, pushing him towards the floo. “You boys have fun,” she says mockingly. Then, in a more concerned tone, she continues, “we will see you tomorrow at work, Draco?”

I nod, not bothering to look away from Ron. They are in love, they will understand.

And now it’s just the two of us, staring into each other’s eyes. My stomach is swooping dangerously. I’ve told this tall ginger prat that I love him! Salazar, what was I thinking? And why is my heart pounding so fast, making it hard to breath properly? My whole body is betraying me.

I struggle for something to say. “Thanks. For backing me up, I mean.” How articulate I sound. Ron’s blue-eyed gaze has left my brain mushy.

He huffs out a laugh, the air gently ruffling the strands of hair loose by my ear. “I’ve been accused in the past of having the emotional range of a teaspoon,” Ron admits.

“Oh?” I question, because his statement seems to come out of nowhere. What does that have to do with him agreeing to my plan?

“Uh huh,” he says, dropping his forehead to mine and nodding into it. His nose brushes against mine, just the softest of touches, and my stomach swoops wildly again. “And you are so hard to figure out sometimes, Ferret. So cryptically Slytherin. But I’m pretty sure I’ve got it right, this time.”

I tilt my head slightly, and our noses slide against each other, bringing our lips tantalizing close. “I think you know exactly what I want, Weasel,” I whisper, trying to sound seductive. It comes out more as breathy and imploring, and I fight back a flinch at how needy I must seem.

Ron’s hand slides out of mine, and both move to my waist, resting on my hips. One thumb digs in to my hipbone, rubbing circles. It sends warmth rushing through me. “I do, because I want it too.” He laughs again, jostling me a bit when his body moves. “I’m falling for you too,” he says, with reverence and awe and possibly a smidge of fear. I know exactly how he feels. But it’s too late to second guess anything now, because Ron is closing the infinitesimal gap between us, caressing my lips with his.

And it’s worth every interruption, every bit of heartache and self doubt and longing, to be locked in this kiss with Ronald Weasley. To feel the gentle pressure of his soft, giving lips. It’s a surprisingly chaste kiss, lasting only moments, and it has me chasing Ron’s lips when it ends.

“So, what about that date?” he asks, clamping his hands on my shoulder.

“Fuck the date, Weasel,” I growl, pushing hard against his grip. He holds me off, with seemingly little effort. Damn those sexy Auror muscles.

Another laugh from Ron. At my expense! When did I turn so unwittingly hilarious? “I’m taking you on a date, Draco. Somewhere everyone can see us. I want the world to know that Draco Malfoy is my boyfriend.”

Merlin, does my heart soar at that proclamation. “Fine,” I mutter, pretending to be put out and pouting up at Ron. “But we should kiss a little more first. Just for practice.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Ron whispers inanely, sliding his hands around my neck.

He’s right. It’s all just perfect.

~~~***~~~

Weasel and I go on that date.

It goes without saying that we snog each other stupid first. I barely enjoy my wine, my lips are so tender. As if that matters - I’m so completely smitten, I couldn’t remember what we ate even if I was held at wand point and our lives depended on it. I was too busy staring at Ron. Watching those plump lips, pink from kissing, and his hair messy from where I ran my fingers through it rather enthusiastically. Like a sodding Hufflepuff fourth year. There, I said it.

And we make the headlines. Merlin, do we! The Prophet loves us. **Auror Weasley dating Malfoy Heir** the front page proclaims. And the photos...there are so many photos. One of Ron reaching out to grab my hand over the table, pulling it towards him and gently kissing my knuckles. One of me sliding a fork full of decadent dessert into Ron’s waiting mouth, his eyes shut tight in bliss while I study him with adoration. And my absolute favourite, one of us walking hand in hand down the street, a fine mist falling on us. Ron stops, grabs my wrist, pulls me back into a hug, then whirls me around, my feet flying backwards in the air. We both look so carefree and happy. It ends with Ron stroking my face, and then loops back again. Copies have already been ordered for us both.

That’s not the only headline I feature in. Of course not. Pansy is still out there, desperate and waiting to extract her revenge.

So I’m not surprised to see the words **Popular Local Business Greg’s Construction Tainted by Death Eater Ties** broadcast from the front page, framing a photo of myself. The picture is not a cute, innocent one of me and Weasley frolicking in the rain. It’s a closeup from my trial, showcasing my hollow cheeks and sunken eyes with the dark purple circles ringing them. Oh, and the Dark Mark. That’s clearly visible as well.

I am deeply regretting my renewed Daily Prophet subscription.

Then there is the proclamation of **Weasley-Malfoy Relationship is a Sham** , followed by the subtitle _Draco Malfoy seduces Auror Weasley in bid to win a bet._

Fucking Pansy Parkinson. I tried to do the right thing. I sent her the Galleons. Not all of them, but a fair bit. A hundred Galleons, along with a letter, admitting I may have treated her poorly in the past, and offering her my renewed friendship. If I’m being totally honest, I never thought she would accept. Pansy never saw the value in having friends, without the guarantee of some type of reward. We were dreadfully similar that way, back at Hogwarts. But I’ve been offered my fair share of second chances, and I felt it only appropriate to extend the olive branch to Pansy. Now I can cut her out of my life with no misgivings or feelings of remorse.

What I can’t do is remain holed up in my warded flat for the rest of my life, as much as I might like to. I’ve got pressing obligations, to Greg’s business and my charities, that I take very seriously. However, I’m no brash Gryffindor. I can’t just go charging out, head held high, and brazen the whole thing out.

In the end, my brash, brave, beautiful Gryffindor does it for me. He comes to collect me for a date, dampening my fears with pure pig-headed stubbornness.

“They will eat us alive,” I squeak, in an unnaturally high and unflattering voice. “They’ll murder me, and have you committed to St Mungos for a mental health check.”

“Trust me,” Ron utters, as he steps forward into my personal space places a kiss on my forehead. I close my eyes, and my arms automatically rise to rest on his strong shoulders. I’m drawn to him like a loden stone. I can’t seem to keep away.

“I do,” I admit in a whisper. As much as a Slytherin can put their total trust in someone, I have put mine in Ronald Weasley. “You wanker.”

Ron pulls back and flashes me a charmingly crooked smile. He has one top canine tooth that protrudes the slightest bit. Even with his flaws, it is the cutest smile I have ever seen. Merlin, I am gone for this man. “Then let’s go,” he says, outstretching his arm to me as he sweeps into a bow at my feet. “Dinner on Diagon Alley awaits.”

“Diagon Alley! Salazar’s crooked wand, you do want to see me murdered.” I step forward and grip his hand, probably with a little too much force. I’m nervous. What if this all goes horribly wrong, and Ron decides I’m too much trouble? That the Malfoy name is too big a risk to take on?

“Nah,” he says, gracing me with that killer smile once more. “The restaurant owner owes me a favour. He’ll keep the reporters out. But you look especially debonair tonight, Ferret, so I’ll be parading you down Diagon.”

We floo to the Leaky Cauldron, where the proprietor greets us with a strained smile. Ron waves at him jauntily. He finds my hand, and intertwines our fingers, before opening the pub door. From there, it is pandemonium.

Questions are screeched at us, and camera lights flash in my eyes, leaving me disoriented and pretty much blind. Ron bends down and whispers in my ear, “just follow me,” and he give my hand a quick squeeze before tugging me down the street.

The crowd parts for him, but they follow after us, continuing to shout questions.  Ron gives nothing away, just smiles serenely and states, “I’m taking my boyfriend out for a bite.” If I’m not mistaken, a slender young witch bursts into tears at his announcement. Back off, cretins, this Weasley is mine.

We reach the restaurant fairly soon, and I have never been more glad to arrive at a destination in my whole life. Before entering, Ron spins us around, presenting us to the amazed crowd of reporters and followers. “Draco and I request privacy for our date. Please respect our wishes.” I’ve been holding back from trembling since I first stepped foot in the Leaky, but Weasel’s sexy, authoritative voice nearly cracks my resolve. I’m weak in the knees, so I’m quite glad when I find Ron gripping my bicep hard, steering me into the restaurant.

The comments from the crowd had been a jumbled mass of indecsernable voices, but now things have gone mostly silent, and I make out a question being asked of me. “What’s in this for you, Malfoy?”

I pause at the doorway, my eyes on Ron’s face. What’s in this for me? I feel like I could write a novel on the subject, and still not do it justice. So I just murmur, “I love him,” while keeping my gaze fixed on Ron. I don’t know if they’ve heard or not, because I am being pulled through the entrance, and as soon as the door closes, I am pushed up against it by 13 stone of tall, muscular Auror.

He kisses me sweetly, but with an urgency I haven’t felt before. His warmth, and the steady strength of his body, are intoxicating. He crowds me against the door, and I let myself sag forward, propped up by him in front and the sturdy door behind me. I sink into him as I wrap my arms around his neck and tilt my head slightly, encouraging the deepening of the kiss.

Ron’s tongue snakes forward and sweeps into my mouth, and I tighten my grip around his neck, holding on for dear life. Merlin, the boy can kiss. For a moment, I forget we are in a public place, and that Ron has no experience with another man, besides that one shoddy kiss with Potter. I press my leg forward, wedging my thigh between his own legs, and grind into his groin. Ron gasps and then moans, and nibbles on my bottom lip playfully before pulling back and giving me an embarrassed smirk.

Wild applause breaks out, and I remember we are in fact in a restaurant, in the middle of Diagon Alley, on a very public date. I peek my head around Ron’s body. Everywhere I look, from the customers to the waiters to the tenders at the bar, I see smiles and clapping and even cheering. Weasley smiles sheepishly and waves, while I make a little bow, reminiscent of the one he gave me earlier.

“Right this way, gentlemen,” says a handsome wizard wearing sky blue robes. “Your table awaits.”

Ron grabs my hand again, and I follow him through the restaurant, past the smiling faces. We reach our table, and Ron pulls out my chair. As I sit down, he bends over and whispers in my ear, “I love you too, Ferret. Godric help me, I love you too.”

He presses a kiss on my cheek, and goes to stand up, but I am quicker. Seeker reflexes. I haul him down by the neck and lunge at his lips, ravaging them in my attempt to convey the emotions I am feeling.

Someone whistles, and I am forced to let go, for propriety’s sake. But the way Ron stumbles to his own chair has my heart soaring. I really get under his skin. He loves me. He actually, honestly loves me. Fuck, is that terrifying.

“So, what exactly did it for you, Weasel?” I ask, trying to play it cool. “Was it my striking good looks? My impeccable manners? My vast quidditch knowledge? My superior intellect? I’m desperate to hear what has you declaring your undying love.”

Even in the face of my lightly mocking tone, Ron remains calm. He taps his cheek, pretending to think about it for a moment, before his face alights with a wide grin. Merlin, I want to kiss the smile right off those plump lips. “I’ve been a goner ever since you brushed my arm the first night in the pub, Ferret.”

“Ah hah, so it was my powerful seduction skills that lured you in?” I ask teasingly.

“At least they got one headline right,” Ron says. “I’ve definitely been seduced by Draco Malfoy.”

“And don’t you forget it,” I sniff haughtily, before my lips curl up to answer his grin.

Ron reaches over the table and tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger for a second, ghosting along my jawline and down my neck. “Oh, I won’t,” he promises.

~~~***~~~

And there you have it, dear readers. Draco Malfoy’s guide to ~~seducing your enemy~~ / ~~getting seduced by a ginger git~~ / ~~debonair dating~~ falling in love with ~~your enemy~~ / ~~the man of your dreams~~ / ~~an annoying Gryffindor~~ a (talented, thoughtful, perceptive) blue eyed Weasel.

The End  
Author: Draco ‘Ferret Face’ Malfoy 

**Author's Note:**

> One day I wondered if it would be possible for Draco and Ron to have a healthy relationship. Then this story took over my life. It’s been MONTHS in the making, it probably sucks, there is no Draco-Ron sex, and I doubt anyone will get through all my wordiness to finish the damn thing. 
> 
> If you have made it to the end, thank you for reading, and sticking with it! I did enjoy writing this story, and especially liked crafting this supportive version of Slytherin House.
> 
> There was one more idea that I had planned for this story, but I couldn't get it to fit. I will most likely write it up and post in the future. So if you are interested in discovering Draco's feelings about Harry, and a confession he makes to Ron, watch for that :)


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